What you think they will do and how much of the Shadows will they know about?
#cyberpunkcoltoure #TheStorm #leterrissage #letirresage #theotherside
Incorporated with DeepSeek
## Champagne Run: Shadow of the Aegean
The air in Neo-Paris’s 23ème Arrondissement shimmered with the heat of holographic billboards and the collective anxiety of two people used to controlling every pixel of their image. Vespera "Vex" St. Clair, a vision of razor-cut synth-silk in iridescent gunmetal grey, paced the penthouse’s moonlit terrace. Her chrome-plated cybereyes, currently projecting a feed of Mykonos’s feverish pre-party Matrix buzz, flickered with frustration. Beside her, leaning against a carbon-fibre railing with deceptive nonchalance, was Kaito "Silk" Tanaka. His bio-luminescent tattoos pulsed a slow, anxious crimson beneath a sheer, architecturally draped jacket. Their usual effortless cool was frayed.
"Three shipments, Kaito," Vex hissed, her voice a low thrum like a vibro-blade unsheathing. "Three! Stolen outside Lyon by road pirates who probably *watered* their soy-kaf with the stuff. Intercepted by 'customs officials' in Genoa who vanished faster than a decker’s reputation. And that last one… simply vanished off the grid somewhere over the Tyrrhenian. *Poof*." She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the humid night.
Kaito sighed, the light beneath his skin deepening to a worried purple. "The whispers are already starting, Vex. 'Silk & Vex losing their touch?' 'Can't even get the bubbles flowing?' Our exclusive 'Aegean Eclipse' party *hinges* on that Le Champagne '49. Without it…" He didn't need to finish. Their reputations weren't just built on style; they were empires of exclusivity. Being the *only* ones with the impossible vintage at the season's most anticipated party wasn't just desirable; it was existential.
Their fixer, a discreet data-ghost known only as *Maitre D'*, had finally delivered a name after the third failure: **Riggs**. Not a handle, just Riggs. Accompanied by a price tag that made even their augmented bank accounts wince, and a single, terse Matrix message: *"No roads. No borders. Low and fast. Pay upfront. Or don't."*
They paid. Instantly. Transferred enough nuyen to buy a small corporate security detachment. All they got in return was a secure, encrypted Matrix node and a time: **Delivery Window: 04:30 Mykonos Local. Coordinates Attached.**
Now, they waited. Not in Mykonos, but remotely, jacked into a private, ultra-secure Matrix host shaped like a minimalist obsidian lounge overlooking a digital simulation of the target harbour. Their feeds were split: one showing the real-time satellite overlay of the Mykonos coastline, the other patched into Riggs’ promised delivery stream.
---
**Over the Ionian Sea, 03:45 Local. Altitude: 15 Meters.**
The world outside the modified Beechcraft Baron was a roaring black tapestry stitched with silver moonlight on the waves. Inside the cramped cockpit, illuminated only by the soft, blood-red glow of instrument panels, Riggs was an extension of the machine. His consciousness wasn't *in* the leather seat; it was woven into the aircraft’s sensor net, the thrumming engines, the subtle feedback in the control yoke. A datajack cable snaked from his temple to the console. His meat body was a relaxed afterthought; his mind *was* the Baron.
Designation: *Whispering Death*. Modifications were extensive, expensive, and utterly illegal. Reinforced airframe. Subdued, radar-absorbent coating that drank the moonlight. Twin heavy machine guns slung beneath the wings, currently cold and safetied. Most crucially: retractable, high-buoyancy pontoons allowing water landings, and an engine muffler system that turned the usual roar into a deep, ocean-mimicking purr at this altitude.
His cargo hold wasn't standard neither. Nestled amongst the 30 reinforced cases of Le Champagne '49 – each crate subtly temperature-controlled and shock-dampened – was Riggs’ secret weapon: the **G-Force Cradle**. A self-contained box the size of a large coffin, lined with advanced hydraulic dampeners capable of soaking up to 5Gs of sustained acceleration from any side and direction of the 3 dimensional world. Inside it, nestled in impact gel, was the champagne. Outside it, Riggs could fly like a demon possessed.
His route was a jagged scar across the Mediterranean, meticulously plotted to avoid known pirate havens, corporate patrol lanes, and the voracious appetites of corrupt port authorities. He flew nap-of-the-earth, skimming wave crests so close spray occasionally ghosted the canopy, rendering him virtually invisible to conventional radar. Thermal signature? Minimal, masked by the sea's own heat bloom. Magical detection? A calculated risk, mitigated by speed, altitude (or lack thereof), and sheer unpredictability. He wasn't dodging patrols; he was flying *beneath* their notice, a ghost in the machine of international logistics.
His internal comms crackled, a secure, scrambled line. *"Riggs. Vex and Silk. Status?"* Vex’s voice, stripped of its usual performative languor, was tight with tension.
Riggs’ response was a neural impulse, translated into flat, synthetic speech over the comm. **"On track. ETA 04:28. Sea state nominal. No hostiles detected. Maintaining profile."**
*"Just… get it here, Riggs,"* Kaito’s voice cut in, the luminescence in his tattoos probably spiking on the other end. *"The vultures are circling. Corp trucks from Dionysus Beverages rolled in two hours ago. They’re already gloating."*
**"Understood."** Riggs cut the comm. Gloating corps were the least of his concerns. His world was the sensor feed: the rhythmic pulse of the waves, the faint electronic chatter of distant shipping parsed and dismissed by his onboard deck, the reassuring thrum of the engines. He pushed the throttles forward a fraction. *Whispering Death* sank lower, its pontoons occasionally kissing the swell, becoming one with the dark sea.
---
**Mykonos Harbour - Old Fisherman's Wharf 7, 04:27 Local.**
The designated wharf was a crumbling relic, far from the pulsing neon heart of the island’s nightlife. Rusting chains lay coiled like sleeping serpents at the water’s edge. Vex and Silk, physically present now despite the risk, were shadows within shadows. They’d arrived via a discreet electro-bike, cloaked in non-descript, sensor-diffusing ponchos over their couture. Their usual entourage was conspicuously absent. Only their shared, encrypted Matrix feed to the obsidian lounge host connected them to their glittering world. The satellite overlay showed nothing but empty sea approaching the harbour chain – a line of buoys and submerged nets designed to deter smugglers.
*"Where is he?"* Vex subvocalized into their internal party chat. Her cybereyes scanned the dark horizon, seeing nothing but the bobbing lights of distant yachts and the imposing shadow of the harbour chain barrier a kilometer out. *"He said 04:28! He’s cutting it fragging close!"*
Suddenly, their shared Riggs-feed flickered to life. Not satellite. A grainy, low-light image transmitted directly from the Baron’s nose cam. It showed the churning black water rushing past at terrifying speed, mere meters below. Then, the looming, jagged silhouette of the harbour chain materialized out of the gloom – a wall of buoys and steel cable.
*"He’s not stopping!"* Silk’s mental shout was pure panic.
On the feed, the view tilted violently upwards. The engines screamed, a sound even the mufflers couldn't completely suppress at full emergency thrust. *Whispering Death* clawed for altitude, a dark shape momentarily silhouetted against the moonlit clouds. It cleared the topmost buoy by what looked like centimeters. Then, the nose dropped sharply. The camera view became a dizzying plunge straight down towards the dark water *inside* the harbour, right at the edge of the wharf.
"*He’s crashing!*" Vex gasped aloud, forgetting subvocalization.
Instead of a catastrophic splash, there was a massive, controlled *WHOOSH* of displaced water. The pontoons hit, digging deep, sending a plume of spray high into the air, catching the moonlight like liquid silver. The Baron planed wildly for a heart-stopping moment, engines howling in reverse thrust, then settled heavily but intact, rocking violently in its own wake, maybe 50 meters off Wharf 7.
The cockpit canopy hissed open. A figure – just a dark silhouette against the instrument glow – emerged, moving with swift, economical grace. A small, agile inflatable dinghy deployed from a compartment near the tail, hitting the water with a soft *plop*. The figure was in it instantly, firing up a near-silent electric outboard. The dinghy arrowed towards the wharf.
Vex and Silk rushed to the edge, their expensive boots scraping on wet stone. The figure cut the engine, gliding the last few meters. He was clad in dark, practical gear, face obscured by a light-absorbent balaclava and low-light goggles. He didn't speak, just tossed a heavy line up to Kaito, who caught it instinctively. Together, Vex and Silk hauled the dripping dinghy closer. Inside, nestled securely, were five reinforced cases.
"Rest is in the hold," a gruff, electronically modulated voice came from the figure – Riggs. "Waterproof. Get it out. Fast. Three minutes max."
No pleasantries. No boasts. Just cold, hard efficiency. Vex and Silk, adrenaline overriding their usual poise, scrambled. They formed a chain, hauling the heavy, dripping cases onto the wharf with surprising strength born of desperation and augmented musculature. Riggs remained in the dinghy, a watchful, unnervingly still sentinel, one hand resting near a holstered heavy pistol, his head constantly scanning the harbour mouth and the dark buildings lining the shore. The tension was a physical thing, thicker than the sea mist.
Case 15... 20... 25... The muscles in Vex’s arms burned. Kaito’s luminescent tattoos pulsed an urgent, rapid yellow. Finally, case 30 thudded onto the stone. Riggs gave a single, sharp nod. He didn't wait for thanks. He yanked the starter cord on the outboard. The hybrid-electric motor whined back to life. With a powerful shove against the wharf, he sent the dinghy spinning back towards the dark silhouette of the waiting Baron.
He was aboard the aircraft in seconds. The canopy sealed. The engines, barely cooled, roared back to life, a defiant snarl in the quiet harbour. *Whispering Death* began to taxi, turning its nose away from the wharf, towards the imposing barrier of the harbour chain it had just vaulted.
*"How’s he getting *out*?"* Vex thought, watching the feed in disbelief. The chain was a solid wall.
The answer was brutal simplicity. Instead of climbing, the Baron accelerated *towards* the chain, engines screaming at full military power. At the last possible second, just meters from the snarling cables and buoys, Riggs cut all thrust. The nose dipped sharply. The pontoons bit into the water. The Baron didn't fly over; it *plunged* under.
On the feed, the view became churning, air-bubbled chaos as the aircraft submerged completely, passing *beneath* the deepest cables of the harbour chain. For three agonizing seconds, there was only darkness and bubbles. Then, the nose surged upwards on the other side, pontoons breaking the surface with another tremendous splash. The engines roared back to life instantly, pushing the Baron forward, already climbing, already accelerating, already melting back into the vast, concealing darkness of the open sea. Within seconds, it was just a fading rumble and a dissipating wake, vanishing like a phantom.
Silence descended on the wharf, broken only by the lap of water and Vex and Silk’s ragged breathing. They stood amidst the stacked cases of Le Champagne '49, the scent of salt air and cold metal mixing with the faint, impossible promise of vintage grapes.
A ping sounded in their shared Matrix host. A new message in the secure chat, from an untraceable node:
**> RIGGS: Delivery complete. Cradle held. 5Gs max logged. Avoided 3 intercept attempts (air), 2 patrol boats. Payment cleared. Do not contact again.**
Attached was no invoice, no farewell. Just a single, final data packet: the raw, unedited sensor log from the *Whispering Death* during the final approach, the harrowing chain breach, the submerged transit, and the escape. It was a masterpiece of illicit aviation.
Vex let out a shaky laugh that bordered on hysterical. Kaito slumped against a crate, his tattoos cycling through relieved blues and greens. They looked at each other, then at the mountain of champagne.
"Right," Vex said, her voice regaining its usual sharp edge, now laced with triumph. "Let’s get this ambrosia to the party before those Dionysus soy-beer pushers choke on their own smugness."
---
**The Aegean Eclipse Party, Villa Eirene, 06:00 Local.**
Dawn was painting the sky in bruised purples and pinks, but the party raged on, a pulsating beast of light, sound, and augmented bodies. The air thrummed with the latest Neo-Trance beats. Holographic manta rays swam through the air above the infinity pool. The who’s who of the Sixth World’s glitterati mingled, their every move subtly captured by hovering drone-cams for their millions of Matrix followers.
Vex and Silk had transformed. Vex wore liquid mercury that seemed to cascade over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, revealing intricate subdermal circuitry glowing beneath her skin. Kaito was a vision in bioluminescent silk that flowed like water, patterns shifting with his mood, currently a triumphant gold. They stood on a raised platform overlooking the main terrace, flanked by silent, heavily augmented security they trusted implicitly.
A hush, orchestrated by a sudden cut in the music and a pulse from the villa’s powerful sound system, fell over the crowd. Every lens, organic and digital, focused on them.
"Lovelies!" Vex’s voice, amplified and dripping with curated warmth, echoed across the terraces. "You’ve been patient. Parched, perhaps?" She let the tension build, a master manipulator of the crowd. "We promised you something… exclusive. Something… *impossible*."
Kaito stepped forward, holding aloft a single, perfectly chilled bottle. The label, simple, elegant, bore the unmistakable crest of Le Champagne, France, and the coveted '49 vintage. A collective gasp rippled through the elite throng. Followed by murmurs of disbelief. Dionysus Beverages executives, clustered near a bar stocked with their own inferior, mass-produced 'sparkling wine', froze, their smiles turning brittle.
"Courtesy," Silk purred, his voice resonating through the sudden silence, "of knowing the *right* shadows to call." He popped the cork with a practiced, theatrical flourish. The sound, crisp and final, cut through the dawn air like a gunshot. The pale gold liquid frothed into waiting, crystal flutes held by discreet servers who suddenly materialized.
As the first flutes were distributed, a wave of genuine awe and desperate craving washed over the party. Vex raised her glass. "To the impossible," she declared, her cybereyes locking onto a drone-cam, projecting defiance and victory to the entire Matrix. "To the *exclusive*. And to knowing," she added with a razor-sharp smile aimed directly at the Dionysus group, "that sometimes, the most valuable things travel the darkest roads."
The music slammed back in, ten times louder. The terrace erupted. The Dionysus execs melted away, faces grim. Vex and Silk clinked glasses, the taste of the impossibly procured champagne – crisp, complex, layered with time and defiance – exploding on their tongues. It wasn't just wine; it was liquid victory, bottled chaos delivered by a ghost in a machine.
Vex triggered her internal comm. A single command sent a pre-composed image rocketing through the Matrix, tagged to their official feeds and blasted across every relevant party channel. It showed the stacked crates of Le Champagne '49 on the dim wharf, Vex and Silk standing triumphantly amidst them, their expressions radiating smug, unassailable victory. The caption was simple, devastating:
> **SILK & VEX: The Eclipse has risen. And the *only* bubbles flowing are the *real* ones. #AegeanEclipse #LeChampagne49 #WhoNeedsTrucks? #ShadowDelivered**
The response was instantaneous. Likes, shares, comments, and sheer envy flooded in, a digital tsunami washing away any lingering doubts about their supremacy. In a world built on perception, they had just delivered the ultimate flex. Not just champagne, but a story. A story of shadows, speed, and a rigger who flew beneath the world to bring them the moon, bottled.
Somewhere over the Aegean, deep in the matrix of his aircraft, Riggs monitored the open Matrix chatter. He saw the picture. He saw the hashtag #ShadowDelivered. A rare, almost imperceptible flicker of satisfaction crossed his neural link. The nuyen had cleared, already laundered through three shell corporations. The *Whispering Death* was en route to a discreet dry dock in Crete for maintenance and re-coating. His reputation, already whispered in the darkest corners of the shadow transport world, had just ascended to legendary status. He hadn't just delivered champagne; he'd delivered a masterpiece of the runner's art: silent, swift, unseen, and utterly, devastatingly effective. He cut the feed. The ghost vanished back into the machine, leaving only bubbles and triumph in his wake.
The air in Neo-Paris’s 23ème Arrondissement shimmered with the heat of holographic billboards and the collective anxiety of two people used to controlling every pixel of their image. Vespera "Vex" St. Clair, a vision of razor-cut synth-silk in iridescent gunmetal grey, paced the penthouse’s moonlit terrace. Her chrome-plated cybereyes, currently projecting a feed of Mykonos’s feverish pre-party Matrix buzz, flickered with frustration. Beside her, leaning against a carbon-fibre railing with deceptive nonchalance, was Kaito "Silk" Tanaka. His bio-luminescent tattoos pulsed a slow, anxious crimson beneath a sheer, architecturally draped jacket. Their usual effortless cool was frayed.
"Three shipments, Kaito," Vex hissed, her voice a low thrum like a vibro-blade unsheathing. "Three! Stolen outside Lyon by road pirates who probably *watered* their soy-kaf with the stuff. Intercepted by 'customs officials' in Genoa who vanished faster than a decker’s reputation. And that last one… simply vanished off the grid somewhere over the Tyrrhenian. *Poof*." She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the humid night.
Kaito sighed, the light beneath his skin deepening to a worried purple. "The whispers are already starting, Vex. 'Silk & Vex losing their touch?' 'Can't even get the bubbles flowing?' Our exclusive 'Aegean Eclipse' party *hinges* on that Le Champagne '49. Without it…" He didn't need to finish. Their reputations weren't just built on style; they were empires of exclusivity. Being the *only* ones with the impossible vintage at the season's most anticipated party wasn't just desirable; it was existential.
Their fixer, a discreet data-ghost known only as *Maitre D'*, had finally delivered a name after the third failure: **Riggs**. Not a handle, just Riggs. Accompanied by a price tag that made even their augmented bank accounts wince, and a single, terse Matrix message: *"No roads. No borders. Low and fast. Pay upfront. Or don't."*
They paid. Instantly. Transferred enough nuyen to buy a small corporate security detachment. All they got in return was a secure, encrypted Matrix node and a time: **Delivery Window: 04:30 Mykonos Local. Coordinates Attached.**
Now, they waited. Not in Mykonos, but remotely, jacked into a private, ultra-secure Matrix host shaped like a minimalist obsidian lounge overlooking a digital simulation of the target harbour. Their feeds were split: one showing the real-time satellite overlay of the Mykonos coastline, the other patched into Riggs’ promised delivery stream.
---
**Over the Ionian Sea, 03:45 Local. Altitude: 15 Meters.**
The world outside the modified Beechcraft Baron was a roaring black tapestry stitched with silver moonlight on the waves. Inside the cramped cockpit, illuminated only by the soft, blood-red glow of instrument panels, Riggs was an extension of the machine. His consciousness wasn't *in* the leather seat; it was woven into the aircraft’s sensor net, the thrumming engines, the subtle feedback in the control yoke. A datajack cable snaked from his temple to the console. His meat body was a relaxed afterthought; his mind *was* the Baron.
Designation: *Whispering Death*. Modifications were extensive, expensive, and utterly illegal. Reinforced airframe. Subdued, radar-absorbent coating that drank the moonlight. Twin heavy machine guns slung beneath the wings, currently cold and safetied. Most crucially: retractable, high-buoyancy pontoons allowing water landings, and an engine muffler system that turned the usual roar into a deep, ocean-mimicking purr at this altitude.
His cargo hold wasn't standard neither. Nestled amongst the 30 reinforced cases of Le Champagne '49 – each crate subtly temperature-controlled and shock-dampened – was Riggs’ secret weapon: the **G-Force Cradle**. A self-contained box the size of a large coffin, lined with advanced hydraulic dampeners capable of soaking up to 5Gs of sustained acceleration from any side and direction of the 3 dimensional world. Inside it, nestled in impact gel, was the champagne. Outside it, Riggs could fly like a demon possessed.
His route was a jagged scar across the Mediterranean, meticulously plotted to avoid known pirate havens, corporate patrol lanes, and the voracious appetites of corrupt port authorities. He flew nap-of-the-earth, skimming wave crests so close spray occasionally ghosted the canopy, rendering him virtually invisible to conventional radar. Thermal signature? Minimal, masked by the sea's own heat bloom. Magical detection? A calculated risk, mitigated by speed, altitude (or lack thereof), and sheer unpredictability. He wasn't dodging patrols; he was flying *beneath* their notice, a ghost in the machine of international logistics.
His internal comms crackled, a secure, scrambled line. *"Riggs. Vex and Silk. Status?"* Vex’s voice, stripped of its usual performative languor, was tight with tension.
Riggs’ response was a neural impulse, translated into flat, synthetic speech over the comm. **"On track. ETA 04:28. Sea state nominal. No hostiles detected. Maintaining profile."**
*"Just… get it here, Riggs,"* Kaito’s voice cut in, the luminescence in his tattoos probably spiking on the other end. *"The vultures are circling. Corp trucks from Dionysus Beverages rolled in two hours ago. They’re already gloating."*
**"Understood."** Riggs cut the comm. Gloating corps were the least of his concerns. His world was the sensor feed: the rhythmic pulse of the waves, the faint electronic chatter of distant shipping parsed and dismissed by his onboard deck, the reassuring thrum of the engines. He pushed the throttles forward a fraction. *Whispering Death* sank lower, its pontoons occasionally kissing the swell, becoming one with the dark sea.
---
**Mykonos Harbour - Old Fisherman's Wharf 7, 04:27 Local.**
The designated wharf was a crumbling relic, far from the pulsing neon heart of the island’s nightlife. Rusting chains lay coiled like sleeping serpents at the water’s edge. Vex and Silk, physically present now despite the risk, were shadows within shadows. They’d arrived via a discreet electro-bike, cloaked in non-descript, sensor-diffusing ponchos over their couture. Their usual entourage was conspicuously absent. Only their shared, encrypted Matrix feed to the obsidian lounge host connected them to their glittering world. The satellite overlay showed nothing but empty sea approaching the harbour chain – a line of buoys and submerged nets designed to deter smugglers.
*"Where is he?"* Vex subvocalized into their internal party chat. Her cybereyes scanned the dark horizon, seeing nothing but the bobbing lights of distant yachts and the imposing shadow of the harbour chain barrier a kilometer out. *"He said 04:28! He’s cutting it fragging close!"*
Suddenly, their shared Riggs-feed flickered to life. Not satellite. A grainy, low-light image transmitted directly from the Baron’s nose cam. It showed the churning black water rushing past at terrifying speed, mere meters below. Then, the looming, jagged silhouette of the harbour chain materialized out of the gloom – a wall of buoys and steel cable.
*"He’s not stopping!"* Silk’s mental shout was pure panic.
On the feed, the view tilted violently upwards. The engines screamed, a sound even the mufflers couldn't completely suppress at full emergency thrust. *Whispering Death* clawed for altitude, a dark shape momentarily silhouetted against the moonlit clouds. It cleared the topmost buoy by what looked like centimeters. Then, the nose dropped sharply. The camera view became a dizzying plunge straight down towards the dark water *inside* the harbour, right at the edge of the wharf.
"*He’s crashing!*" Vex gasped aloud, forgetting subvocalization.
Instead of a catastrophic splash, there was a massive, controlled *WHOOSH* of displaced water. The pontoons hit, digging deep, sending a plume of spray high into the air, catching the moonlight like liquid silver. The Baron planed wildly for a heart-stopping moment, engines howling in reverse thrust, then settled heavily but intact, rocking violently in its own wake, maybe 50 meters off Wharf 7.
The cockpit canopy hissed open. A figure – just a dark silhouette against the instrument glow – emerged, moving with swift, economical grace. A small, agile inflatable dinghy deployed from a compartment near the tail, hitting the water with a soft *plop*. The figure was in it instantly, firing up a near-silent electric outboard. The dinghy arrowed towards the wharf.
Vex and Silk rushed to the edge, their expensive boots scraping on wet stone. The figure cut the engine, gliding the last few meters. He was clad in dark, practical gear, face obscured by a light-absorbent balaclava and low-light goggles. He didn't speak, just tossed a heavy line up to Kaito, who caught it instinctively. Together, Vex and Silk hauled the dripping dinghy closer. Inside, nestled securely, were five reinforced cases.
"Rest is in the hold," a gruff, electronically modulated voice came from the figure – Riggs. "Waterproof. Get it out. Fast. Three minutes max."
No pleasantries. No boasts. Just cold, hard efficiency. Vex and Silk, adrenaline overriding their usual poise, scrambled. They formed a chain, hauling the heavy, dripping cases onto the wharf with surprising strength born of desperation and augmented musculature. Riggs remained in the dinghy, a watchful, unnervingly still sentinel, one hand resting near a holstered heavy pistol, his head constantly scanning the harbour mouth and the dark buildings lining the shore. The tension was a physical thing, thicker than the sea mist.
Case 15... 20... 25... The muscles in Vex’s arms burned. Kaito’s luminescent tattoos pulsed an urgent, rapid yellow. Finally, case 30 thudded onto the stone. Riggs gave a single, sharp nod. He didn't wait for thanks. He yanked the starter cord on the outboard. The hybrid-electric motor whined back to life. With a powerful shove against the wharf, he sent the dinghy spinning back towards the dark silhouette of the waiting Baron.
He was aboard the aircraft in seconds. The canopy sealed. The engines, barely cooled, roared back to life, a defiant snarl in the quiet harbour. *Whispering Death* began to taxi, turning its nose away from the wharf, towards the imposing barrier of the harbour chain it had just vaulted.
*"How’s he getting *out*?"* Vex thought, watching the feed in disbelief. The chain was a solid wall.
The answer was brutal simplicity. Instead of climbing, the Baron accelerated *towards* the chain, engines screaming at full military power. At the last possible second, just meters from the snarling cables and buoys, Riggs cut all thrust. The nose dipped sharply. The pontoons bit into the water. The Baron didn't fly over; it *plunged* under.
On the feed, the view became churning, air-bubbled chaos as the aircraft submerged completely, passing *beneath* the deepest cables of the harbour chain. For three agonizing seconds, there was only darkness and bubbles. Then, the nose surged upwards on the other side, pontoons breaking the surface with another tremendous splash. The engines roared back to life instantly, pushing the Baron forward, already climbing, already accelerating, already melting back into the vast, concealing darkness of the open sea. Within seconds, it was just a fading rumble and a dissipating wake, vanishing like a phantom.
Silence descended on the wharf, broken only by the lap of water and Vex and Silk’s ragged breathing. They stood amidst the stacked cases of Le Champagne '49, the scent of salt air and cold metal mixing with the faint, impossible promise of vintage grapes.
A ping sounded in their shared Matrix host. A new message in the secure chat, from an untraceable node:
**> RIGGS: Delivery complete. Cradle held. 5Gs max logged. Avoided 3 intercept attempts (air), 2 patrol boats. Payment cleared. Do not contact again.**
Attached was no invoice, no farewell. Just a single, final data packet: the raw, unedited sensor log from the *Whispering Death* during the final approach, the harrowing chain breach, the submerged transit, and the escape. It was a masterpiece of illicit aviation.
Vex let out a shaky laugh that bordered on hysterical. Kaito slumped against a crate, his tattoos cycling through relieved blues and greens. They looked at each other, then at the mountain of champagne.
"Right," Vex said, her voice regaining its usual sharp edge, now laced with triumph. "Let’s get this ambrosia to the party before those Dionysus soy-beer pushers choke on their own smugness."
---
**The Aegean Eclipse Party, Villa Eirene, 06:00 Local.**
Dawn was painting the sky in bruised purples and pinks, but the party raged on, a pulsating beast of light, sound, and augmented bodies. The air thrummed with the latest Neo-Trance beats. Holographic manta rays swam through the air above the infinity pool. The who’s who of the Sixth World’s glitterati mingled, their every move subtly captured by hovering drone-cams for their millions of Matrix followers.
Vex and Silk had transformed. Vex wore liquid mercury that seemed to cascade over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, revealing intricate subdermal circuitry glowing beneath her skin. Kaito was a vision in bioluminescent silk that flowed like water, patterns shifting with his mood, currently a triumphant gold. They stood on a raised platform overlooking the main terrace, flanked by silent, heavily augmented security they trusted implicitly.
A hush, orchestrated by a sudden cut in the music and a pulse from the villa’s powerful sound system, fell over the crowd. Every lens, organic and digital, focused on them.
"Lovelies!" Vex’s voice, amplified and dripping with curated warmth, echoed across the terraces. "You’ve been patient. Parched, perhaps?" She let the tension build, a master manipulator of the crowd. "We promised you something… exclusive. Something… *impossible*."
Kaito stepped forward, holding aloft a single, perfectly chilled bottle. The label, simple, elegant, bore the unmistakable crest of Le Champagne, France, and the coveted '49 vintage. A collective gasp rippled through the elite throng. Followed by murmurs of disbelief. Dionysus Beverages executives, clustered near a bar stocked with their own inferior, mass-produced 'sparkling wine', froze, their smiles turning brittle.
"Courtesy," Silk purred, his voice resonating through the sudden silence, "of knowing the *right* shadows to call." He popped the cork with a practiced, theatrical flourish. The sound, crisp and final, cut through the dawn air like a gunshot. The pale gold liquid frothed into waiting, crystal flutes held by discreet servers who suddenly materialized.
As the first flutes were distributed, a wave of genuine awe and desperate craving washed over the party. Vex raised her glass. "To the impossible," she declared, her cybereyes locking onto a drone-cam, projecting defiance and victory to the entire Matrix. "To the *exclusive*. And to knowing," she added with a razor-sharp smile aimed directly at the Dionysus group, "that sometimes, the most valuable things travel the darkest roads."
The music slammed back in, ten times louder. The terrace erupted. The Dionysus execs melted away, faces grim. Vex and Silk clinked glasses, the taste of the impossibly procured champagne – crisp, complex, layered with time and defiance – exploding on their tongues. It wasn't just wine; it was liquid victory, bottled chaos delivered by a ghost in a machine.
Vex triggered her internal comm. A single command sent a pre-composed image rocketing through the Matrix, tagged to their official feeds and blasted across every relevant party channel. It showed the stacked crates of Le Champagne '49 on the dim wharf, Vex and Silk standing triumphantly amidst them, their expressions radiating smug, unassailable victory. The caption was simple, devastating:
> **SILK & VEX: The Eclipse has risen. And the *only* bubbles flowing are the *real* ones. #AegeanEclipse #LeChampagne49 #WhoNeedsTrucks? #ShadowDelivered**
The response was instantaneous. Likes, shares, comments, and sheer envy flooded in, a digital tsunami washing away any lingering doubts about their supremacy. In a world built on perception, they had just delivered the ultimate flex. Not just champagne, but a story. A story of shadows, speed, and a rigger who flew beneath the world to bring them the moon, bottled.
Somewhere over the Aegean, deep in the matrix of his aircraft, Riggs monitored the open Matrix chatter. He saw the picture. He saw the hashtag #ShadowDelivered. A rare, almost imperceptible flicker of satisfaction crossed his neural link. The nuyen had cleared, already laundered through three shell corporations. The *Whispering Death* was en route to a discreet dry dock in Crete for maintenance and re-coating. His reputation, already whispered in the darkest corners of the shadow transport world, had just ascended to legendary status. He hadn't just delivered champagne; he'd delivered a masterpiece of the runner's art: silent, swift, unseen, and utterly, devastatingly effective. He cut the feed. The ghost vanished back into the machine, leaving only bubbles and triumph in his wake.
