Let's take a look back and forth.
Back at the things that've already gone, and maybe a bit forth, at the things which are soon to be.
Samuel Algers, good ol' Sokora. He always felt that his life was going to be great and superb - when he was about 12 years old. That's when his good ol' pop got murdered in the streets, by a gang who felt that whatever amount of nuYen he was carrying just so happened to be worth his life... his ol' gal took her own life not long after, after she'd learned that their accounts had been drained by the exact same gang. A gang that spent it on drugs - readily, happily, for just long enough to enjoy it before they learned it'd be the last dose they'd ever take.
Good ol' Sokora, who managed to pop a few heads, then go back to school with the last smile he thought he'd ever carry on his face.
The man played it smart. Never got in above his head, never got in with the wrong crowd where anyone he knew could ever see him. He got an in on the streets, made a few friends too. Bill Burkley, Georgia Winston, they were the players who went where the players don't play. And lemme tell you, they played it smart as well. But everyone who does it eventually learns, 'high risk, high reward' doesn't come without its own penalties.
Sooner or later, Sokora was playing deep in the pits, and I'm not talking about the casinos. He'd gone all in, but at the same time... he was hunting big game. Turns out that gang had been cut loose of nearly everyone they'd been playing. The Triad, the Vory, the MegaCorps... doesn't matter who, they were out for blood. And so Sokora played that one part in the game he swore he'd never play: the Dealer.
Turns out he had a knack for it. Gave the team the resources they'd need, and even cut 'em a good part of the return when they performed well, well above his expectations.
But from then on... instead of playing the dealer, he decided to play the Face. The guy who gets folks to trust the team. He joined up with his old allies, and did he ever perform. Together, they managed to write a new chapter in the history of Denver, even snagging Ghostwalker himself to help 'em out. They had fun. But sooner or later the fun has to end, and Sokora decided, after that one last score, it was time to cut it off.
Seattle seemed nice this time of year.
Ten, ten, ten motherfucking years these assholes have left me alone, and now they decide that it's a good time to send an all-out assault? Who the hell even gave them my address? If it was that asshole Rob, I'm going to throw a pipebomb down his chimney for Christmas!
In case you were wondering, I was in the deep shit. I was just about to open for the night when I got swarmed by a set of what I'd laughably call 'rogue agents' if not for the simple fact that they'd stormed into my bar like the motherfucking mafia, shot my girlfriend in the fucking face, taken two customers aside - very nice customers, by the way, in case that counts - and deftly inserted their knives between two ribs in a manner that implied they would not enjoy their holiday season.
Being 'just' the bartender, I booked it as soon as I caught what was going on, practically flung myself up the fire escape, and caught myself a momentary breath before those sacks of drek had quite recognized what I'd done.
Poor Elise. She hadn't asked for any of this: she was just the girl of the night a year ago, and here I'd been thinking of proposing to her. It was a damned shame and if I had two ways about it, I'd make the motherfuckers burn for her. Something told me she'd smile at the thought, and for a useless instant I took it upon myself to reminisce. Then the sound of sawn-off shotguns drew my attention once more.
"He's up top! Ventilate the damn roof!"
If there were ever a cue to go, I knew that was it. Sorry, Elise: you were already gone anyway. With a running leap, I managed one of those old parkour moves and managed to get myself from rooftop to rooftop - not a particularly difficult task when they were five feet apart, though it still looks damned impressive when you see it done. I considered myself thankful here that I'd picked a neighborhood with close-set buildings, another of which was set nearly below my own position such that I could perform a jump-and-roll with what few acrobatics skills I possessed.
Unfortunately, what I hadn't realized was that the bastards were waiting for me.
The very moment I hit the roof, they pulled themselves off the fire escapes and began a very pointed effort to provide the roof with a new ventilation system. Standing here, standing now, there was no way I could possibly get away, so I began to throw myself to the right - whereupon lurked a very inviting, potentially safe brick wall.
What I hadn't realized, before my feet left the ledge for the last time, was that the distance was entirely too far to jump - the fire escape was nowhere near where my hands could grip - and I was about to do a header onto the street from four stories up.
Evidently some deity had a good word for me, though, because... right after I had let out a gigantic, "Oh, SHIT", upon realizing my error, I found myself hitting the ground with somewhat less velocity than I'd expected.
With a dizzy head, I took a look around at what looked like... ponies? Pointing their spears at me. Spears! Of course, I knew better than to laugh at pointed, sharp sticks - but there was... there was...
"Oh, what fresh Hell is this?" I managed to slur out, before slumping upon the polished cobblestones.
Somewhere in Seattle, a group of thugs with a particular goal in mind looked at each other, scratched their heads, and drove off in their minivan, planning to attend a great concert after their murderous boss had finished paying them exactly what they deserved.
And somewhere in Canterlot, a group of Royal Guards who had been 'guarding' a rock concert - a nouveau wave of artistic expression - looked at the thestral who had just fallen out of the sky, and stared at the three stones residing on his foreleg: a sapphire, an opal, and a tiger's eye. "Get him to the Princess," one commanded, and the other two hastened to obey.