Son of Triam
Momentum. Cassus exerted himself, pushing harder, working faster, and gasping for more air. But then, he collided with the other end of the cargo container, and all momentum was lost in the impact. As he wiped the water from his hair, he peered into the void, where momentum never ceased. Out there, he could be an eternal bullet, flying unimpeded, unstoppable, unless it burned up in some random atmosphere, lucky even to impact the unforgiving ground where none of the corpos live. Pulling himself out of the container, careful to keep his water-logged trunks from slipping off, he thought about how much was lost. Denon was still a corporate hellhole, and an ostensibly benevolent republic supposedly overseeing it was mostly ignorant, distracted, or bought out from paying it any mind—all the efforts of the more revolutionary Darkwire Shadowrunners... all for naught.
But they were still alive. The members, at least. Alive enough to celebrate nothing less than the miracle that they were still alive. When the world you lived in was filled with so much doom and gloom, sometimes it was better to take a load off and enjoy the simple pleasures of the present. Simple pleasures, like the lovely company of

Cassus plopped down on a crappy lawn chair and downed a shot of something hard, probably closer to biofuel than liquor, but accented nicely with a stupid paper umbrella. He didn't care for the newest brewer on the block. Cassus missed an Anzellan, whose name he couldn't remember five drinks in.
"Hey, pukeface, stay out of the pool! It takes forever to filter this shit out, and it's bad enough as it is!" Cassus yelled at a boozed-out bith before they climbed in for a dip, who was seconds away from ruining the cargo pool for everyone.
"Man, way to be a Lockdown!" A passing young cyborg jeered at Cassus. He got that a lot these days.