Shadowrun 5th Edition (Inactive)

Game Master psionichamster

April, 2076. Redmond, Seattle, UCAS.


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Sczarni

Male Cuddly L'il Fuzzy Hamster Psion (Telepath) 20

Seattle, UCAS. 8 February, 2076.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am Trent Brockington, and this is the Emerald City News."

The trid screen resolves on a pleasant, if generic anglo human male, with a fancy but conservative haircut, dark suit and a bright green tie. He looks directly out of the screen with a slight smile before continuing.

"Knight Errant and the Metroplex Guard are still on the lookout for the terrorist group which detonated a vehicle bomb just outside the Aztechnology Pyramid here in Downtown Seattle. 27 people lost their lives in this senseless tragedy, with property damaged estimated in the 900,000 nuyen range. Authorities ask anyone with information on this incident or the terrorists involved to contact them <HERE>."

A window behind Trent shows the aftermath of what appeared to be a significant blast, dark plumes of smoke rising from a large wheeled vehicle and several wrecked KE patrol response vehicles.

"Looks like the weather is going to hold up, continuing our uncommonly warm winter this year. Forecasts call for slight rain, with limited acidity towards the end of the week, it will be partly cloudy with a high of 13 tomorrow."

A popup interrupts the newscast, with an anonymous 1-shot commcode attached.

<Incoming Message>

Job Opportunity:
<Your name came across my notice as a potential resource for a new job opportunity. Pay is commensurate with experience, limited duration contract with a fixed end date. Limited exposure with the public; no special tools or training expected. Click Accept for further details>

ACCEPT:
<Meet Mr. J at Neutral Ground, Redmond; tonight 2130. Formal Attire not required; minimal exposure recommended. Ask for the Edwards party at the door.>

REJECT:
<Message "Job Opportunity" deleted>

Sczarni

Male Cuddly L'il Fuzzy Hamster Psion (Telepath) 20

Red,Jinx,Hawatari:
You are aware that Neutral Ground is a known biker bar. A fairly well stocked hole-in-the-wall, the original owner retired from a MC years and years ago, establishing the rule that no inter-club conflict was allowed inside. Over time, that reputation has been reinforced many times over, with offenders getting tossed, a beat-down, severely stomped, or snuffed entirely depending on their level of drek-headed-ness. About 5-6 blocks east of Touristville and tucked into a side street, its a good place to do business. No weapons-check policy, and a wide assortment of street-level folks means everyone tends to mind their manners and keep their nose out of others' affairs.


Well, well...what do we have here!, Edmund thinks as he reads the message. Clicking the "Accept", he reads the details and smiles to himself.

"Yes, this will do nicely!", he says aloud to the empty room. Going through his closet, he removes his tried and true Ares Big Game Hunter outfit.
Might as well look the part, he thinks as he dresses.

Once outside, he calls a cab, give the address and sits back, relaxed, but aware of his surroundings. When he arrives, he tips the driver a 50 pound note and heads into the somewhat squalid bar.

Once inside, asks for the Edward's Party.


Female Japanese Elf | B.2 A.7/9 R.5/6 S.1/2 C.7 I.5 L.5 W.3 | R|I 11+2d6 (00) | Limits PMS: 5/6/7 | Stun 10/00, Phys 9/00: Conscious, -0 | Defend: Std 11, Blk/Dge +4, Parry +5, Full 20 | Armor: 14 | DR: 3+ |

TL;DR:

"Look, I'll see what I can do, but if you're going to be 'blown to bits' in corporate housing - and yeah, I'm sure whoever you know is gonna make sure the sound bites all say that - you gotta lay low. Tell ya what, if you're feelin' like you can be active after that rush job my guy did on your face - wow, you really do look different with actual elf ears, you know that? - I'll put some feelers out, see if I can't find you some paying work, huh?"

The Japanese woman sighed, reaching up for her face but managed to keep herself from rubbing at it. Psy-l0 did a good rush job, and the nanobot healers were almost done with their part, patching up the capillaries and getting it all settled into place as though the alterations she now sported - some subtle, like the shift in her cheekbones, brow ridge, and jawline, and some overt, like the new 'pure-elf' point to her ears - were the originals she grew into. But though it might be psychosomatic, it still itched. "All right, I hear you. I wish -- no, never mind. Listen, I have barely eight hundred in the account you gave me. That won't last a week - and there isn't even transport here."

"Look, I'll find work - paying work for ya. Get back on the fraggin' horse, get some new cash together, you know the drill, huh? Get back into shape, find a crew you can trust, otherwise you're never gonna be able to find who did this to ya. You got someone keepin' an eye on your other stuff??"

"Yeah. Four people have this 'code, and you're one of them."

"What trust you put in me. Listen, I'm going to have to give the apartment's code to whatever Johnsons I find."

"I know, Six. Just be careful for me, yes?"

"You know I will, H. Take care. Discom."

"Discom." The Japanese elf tossed the commlink - a decent Blue Defender from MCT, with a small but sufficient selection of programs loaded onto it - onto the table next to the mattress-and-box upon which she lay staring at the ceiling. Unlike most others, she didn't need anything else to use the gadget; a pair of implants she'd acquired several years before once again proved their utility, giving her full sensory feedback using nothing more than her own nervous system. She'd considered having the street doc (who, fortunately, didn't know her from Eve) to make a couple other modifications while he was there, but eventually had decided against it; some things could remain nonfunctional, as long as what she had worked.

A slow exhale, and she listened to the street outside her window. She'd been to both Las Vegas and Atlantic City a few times, mostly on work; from where she lay, she had an odd frission of displacement. Touristville. Could be either of the others, from the sound of it. Or New Orleans, come to think of it; the Quarter sounded a lot like this. Shaking her head, she sat up, then climbed to her feet to ease herself over to the window, and without touching the blinds looked through one of the dozens of little openings the plastic slats possessed. For a while she rested there, watching the movement of the people on the street, people from Renton, Downtown Seattle, Bellevue, all out slumming it, imagining that they're in the real Barrens, really taking risks.

Her gaze shifted to the men and women, whether bulked up on 'roids, serious weightlifters, or even orks and trolls, at the doors of each 'establishment' - bar, beetlejoint, brothel, or betting house - before moving with a street vet's eye for danger, identifying the fakes amongst the wandering citizenry. Don't know how Six got me this place, she admitted to herself as she eyed the pseudo-under-cover thugs. The mobs seem to have it all sewn up. But at least they'll take care of the overt violence.

Still weak as a kitten, she thought, stepping away to go to the kitchenette and get yet another cold plastic bottle of MonsterSure, the energy-slash-nutrition-booster drink a case of which Six had been thoughtful enough to have stashed in the fridge, but at least it's a little better than ... then. Can't ... dammit. Yuri, what have they done with you? Twisting the plastic cap open, she slowly and carefully drank from the bottle, knowing from recent experience that slugging the vile sludge too fast would make her just puke it back up. She had long ago become used to a much better quality of vile sludge.

Finishing off most of it, she carried the bottle back to the bed and lay down again. Close my eyes just for a second, she thought to herself ...

... only to be woken up by the studio apartment's comm/trid set kicking on for the Six O'Clock News, an artifact of the previous owner's preferences. Gonna have to change that, she thought fuzzily, swinging her bare feet over the edge of the bed, fingers probing at her eyes before she remembered she shouldn't be fiddling around her face for at least another several hours.

Wow, she adds to herself, blinking at the rotodrone shot of the blast. That was ... not done by amateurs. Almost a million? Someone's lying their ass off. Probably to light a fire under the Knights ... It took her a moment to process the fact that several KE vehicles were trashed as well. If she'd had her old set, she could've had her top-tier subscriber status feed a zoom on the wrecked patrol cars, to eyeball the insides, but all she could do now is guess. Then again, looks like the Knights have sufficient impetus to investigate.

It took her another moment to process the fact that there's a popup asking for her attention in the corner. "Job opportunity? Drek, Six, you're not letting any grass grow under my feet, are you? Back on the horse, my slender buttocks; it's electroshock therapy to keep me from falling off in the first place."

After a moment of hunting, she found the remote, then sat back down to thumb it at the set. "Huh. You lied your silver tongue black to this guy, didn't you, Six," she said to herself. "'Pay is commesurate with experience' - you must have, one gets you twenty he probably couldn't afford me otherwise. Bet your ass it's of limited duration - and if you think I'm going to have anything to do with a real contract ..." She sighs. "Well, beggars can't be choosers." Again, she thumbs the remote, moving the highlighting over to 'Accept' and clicking it, then scans the info. "Hm."

She didn't get as far as she had by not keeping track; leaving the information on the screen, she shifted over to get the new commlink, hooking it onto a wristband to keep it in contact with herself, then using her simlink to call up the AR feed and enter the meeting information into its memory, before doing a bit of browsing.

MitsuMaps put the place only a dozen or so blocks from the Pleasantville apartment in which she sat; a couple of ground-level screenshots from the TrollTridTruck site (which the MCT commlink did NOT like accessing - Japanacorp prejudice against kawaruhito even built into their code) gave her a look at the thing's outside; Seattle experience did the rest. "Well," she said to the commlink after a few minutes more browsing, "it's not like I have anything better to do. Let's go get familiar with the neighborhood, shall we?"

She stood up and went to the closet, looking at the sparse contents that Tinsmith had arranged with Six to be put in place. Going to have to call the tin man, get a bigger selection, she thought to herself, but hell - at least it wasn't paper flats. It wasn't until she was testing the speed of the draw from the katana's sleeve in the long coat that she realized she already felt better than before - marginally, but better.

"All right, then," she told her spotty reflection in the bathroom mirror - an actual mirror, not the 360-degree camera-access view she was used to. "Let's go see what kind of trouble we're going to get hired for, shall we?"

------------------------------------------------------------

With two hours to kill before needing to be there, the female Japanese elf did a casual spiral-in scout of the place - three blocks out, two blocks out, and then around the block in which it was set, getting a feel for the neighborhood and an eye on the routes. She knew her stamina was down, but that would only mean something in a standard pursuit; if she could move where the opposition couldn't (and she was more and more feeling certain that she could) then how long and far she could run would be immaterial.

It still let her show up at the bar a staggering hour early; she knew she wouldn't fit in too well, wearing her middle-class Vashon Island-knockoff secretary-look blouse and ankle-length skirt. Hopefully, the way she carried herself, the ballistic leather of the armored jacket and matte-black Aztech NuevoKevlar overcoat, and the subtle shift to outline the presence of the katana under the coat would be enough to give her respect and a bit of courtesy space.

She really hated shooting people without getting paid for it. Cutting ... well, not as much. But it'd look bad.

Paying whatever door fee the Neutral Ground charged, she entered the bar and, after a moment spent looking it over with the eyes of someone used to needing to identify the truly dangerous people from those who just wanted to look like they were, she moved through the room, heading down to try to find a stool at the far end of the bar. "Beer," she told the 'tender whenever one arrived. "You sell food here?" If the answer is 'yes', she'll order herself some decent food, and at some point take the time to borrow a pen and write 'Edwards party' on a napkin to turn around and show the bartender. She doesn't say anything for a moment, only lifts her eyebrows and, given access to the 'tip bucket' ARO, drops a 30¥ tip into the 'tender's bucket. Accompanying the tip is a private message: "Let me know when others show, will you?"


Ahlwin's finger hovered over accept longer than his credstick balance warranted. Normally he's got no problem booting customers when real work needs to done, but Missy likes the service gig. Should probably start paying her - if only because her mother probably uses Missy as her legit biz face, too...

Kick them out at 7, lock everything down at 7:15. Don't leave for your mother's till I get back. When she gets pissed, tell her I'm checking on a new customer's credit.

*ACCEPT*


At the sound of the news report on the trid, Red looks up at the image. The elf had been staring at a battered hardcopy photo. The only light in the shop was coming from the trid, casting moving shadows that absorbed the fine details of the modified living area. Putting the photo of 12 near strangers and himself away in drawer with his tools, the elf watches the trid for a few more moments before changing the channel. Turning, Red started to walk back downstairs to get back to work on his car when his comm rang.

Actually blinking in surprise, stopping in midstep, the elf reread the text that was in his field of vision. All thanks to chrome that where Red's eyes. With a second to consider the sad state of his credstick, he accepts the job offer. Red wasn't wild about the idea of not running Madam M, she wouldn't burn him with a good reason (like, lot's of nuyen) and they had a good working relationship. 'Can't wait around forever waiting for her to call,' Red thinks to himself.

Mentally waving away the text, Red notes the time ticking away in the faint glowing blue numbers in the corner of his vision. Banishing the time with a thought, he clears his vision of all distractions. Grabbing his black synthleather duster, Red slips it on. Grabbing his Ares Crusader, the elf checks the action on the machine pistol out of habit. The wire in his head was telling him everything about the gun as his meat went through that simple action. Sliding the pistol in the concealed holster built into his duster, he picks up to clips and slides them into the coats inner pocket.

Walking down to the second floor of his shop, Red looks at his Harley and a faint smirk twitches across his thin lips. Straddling the big bike, Red settles in. With a practiced motion, he slides the jack into the Rig port in his left temple.

In less than a breath, the Harley rumbled to life, it's throaty purring echoing around the shop. Red's mind danced along the waking beast, his senses merging fully with the two wheeled machine.

Garage door sliding up just enough for him to make it out, Red roars out of the auto shop, door closing behind him. Mentally sending out the passphrase to lock up his forgotten about shop, Elf/bike finds a nice easy pace down the almost abandoned street. Once he gets out of his living area, then Red takes off, the Harley roars as it gets up to speed. 'Haven't been out to Neutral Ground in a week or two, fun place,' the elf thinks to himself, thinking about the bar.

Mostly following the limits imposed by the authorities, Red makes decent time to the biker bar. One thing he really enjoyed about this place was the respect for another riders bike. And the sheer amount of bikers that hung around outside made stealing a bike pretty damn suicidal. Sliding to a spot like it was made for the Harley, the meat slowly straightens up from where it cling to it's hand holds. With a disappointed grumble, the Harley switches off and the meat pulls the jack from his temple.

Eyes half closed, Red inhales the probably toxic fumes of the bike exhaust. Listening to the rumble of the nearby bikes, Red listens to those nearby for a few seconds, filtering noise and necessary. Noting that nothing of interest came, the elf gracefully slides off his ride.

Red loses about a half hour drek shooting with a couple of local bikers, who are playing around with their latest rigged up two wheeled toys. The elf had seen them before at Ziggy's dropping off some "spare bikes" they had happened to come across. Agreeing that they should get together and ride sometime, the elf takes his leave and heads inside. With a glance at the sidestreet, Red makes his way into the biker bar. Nodding to the bike ork bouncer, the drops the cover fee as soon as the AR window floats into his vision.

A faint grin tugs at his thin lips as a physical wave of music slams into his frame. Making his way to the bar, the elf is stopped a few time by a chummers he's had a few beers with. Or raced. Or partied with. After a few words of shouted greeting, pleasant insults, and another odd offer from that dwarf to come stay the night, Red makes his way to the bar and gets himself a beer. As luck would happen to be smiling on him at the moment, Red scores a seat at the bar.

Sipping his beer, the elf seems to have tuned out the bar around him, looking up at the trid and the Urban Brawl highlights. About 20 minutes to the meeting with yet another Mister Johnson, Red gets up and heads back to the entrance, as the job offer instructed, and the big ork bouncer.

Getting the bored looking man's attention as he walk up and nods to the ork.

"Hoi chummer, I'm meeting the Edwards Party," the elf says, speaking loud enough for the ork to hear, but not the crowd around them. Red sends 50 nuyen to the bouncer's AR tip jar. "Where are we having this little party at?" the rigger inquires.

-70 Nuyen (10 cover fee, 10 decent beer, 50 for the hard working orc.


Male Human Fixer

On approach, Neutral Ground appears rather unimpressive. Set on the corner of the block, the only real feature standing out are the dozen or so motorcycles parked by the front entrance. A simple ARO shines over the door, Neutral Ground in big block letters.

A handful of men mill around the street, beer bottles in hand. Almost all wear dark leather vests over flannel shirts, patches denoting affiliation with small motorcycle clubs on the back. They all carry knives openly, slipped into boots or sheathed at their waste. No-one spares much attention as you enter.

Standing by the door, a bouncer wearing a long-sleeve STAFF t-shirt over what appears to be a ballistic vest waves you in without a problem.

"No fights inside, no matter what. Take it out back. You've been warned," the ork growls past his tusks. Holstered on his right hip sits a bright yellow taser.

Entering the bar, the vibe changes rapidly. Warm and loud, its a welcome change from the February gloom outside. Tobacco and cannabis smoke waft around, and the scent of spilled beer and sweat pervades the air. A large number of people stand or sit around, drinking and carousing loudly. Thumping bass carries throughout, making conversation a bit tricky. The patrons inside appear much like those outside. Mostly human men, with a few orks and dwarves here and there, you see knives, chains, and even a few holstered pistols. Everyone seems to be having a good time, knocking back drinks. Approaching the bar, Jimmy directs you to a back booth, where several people sit. A powerfully built ork stands by the end of the booth, wearing a heavy black coat over hoody and jeans.

Sitting at the table, a human man in his 40's talks to nothing, a glass of beer and pitcher by his hand. On the table itself sits a cheap commlink, possibly a MetaLink or knockoff brand. As you approach the man gestures to sit and terminates his conversation shortly.

"Here for the Edwards party? Good, glad to see you all. I am very pleased to deal with punctual professionals, that makes things much less complicated." the man smiles and takes a sip of his beer before continuing.

"You may call me Mister Johnson, as is customary. That is my associate Steven." The black-clad ork nods briefly. "Let us get right to business, if you please? Job is straightforward: find some stolen goods, retrieve them. Pays ¥1500 if you can get the property back, with a bonus if you can bring in the thief. Interested?"

After Negotiations:

Barring any objections, he slowly reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a dataspike. "I have been contracted to obtain retrieval specialists for a load of cargo which has been...misappropriated. The intended recipient would very much like the property back. Of even greater interest is the name and whereabouts of whoever took it in the first place."

He slots the dataspike into the cheap commlink and presses an icon to trigger its AR display. "Contained on this is the manifest for the cargo and a description of the delivery vehicle. It also has contact information for when you complete your task."

"The vehicle was last seen heading north on the 405 near the intersection of the 522. Whoever grabbed the goods must have forced it off into northern Redmond."

"The only other lead I can provide at this time is a man called Tarnish. He operates a shop out of the Squatters Mall. He was the one who contacted my employer and advised them of the shipment going awry. Any questions?"


Male Human (Chelaxian) Occultist 2; AC 14, touch 12, flat-footed 12, CMD 15; HP 20/20; Fort +6*, Ref +3*, Will +5* (+2 vs. emotion and fear); Initiative +3; Perception +7*, Sense Motive +6; MF 3/3 (Abj), 3/3 (Div), 1/1 (Tra); Sanity 40/40, Threshold 3, Edge 20

It took little time to read the admittedly rather short message. It took even less time to decide and click "Accept".

Dressed, Nathan takes a look at himself in the mirror. Black pants and shoes and a white untucked shirt and over it a black coat. With a pair of matching gloves and considering his raven black hair and fair almost pale complexion, it appears as if only his light amber eyes add some semblance of color to his appearance. He smiles, rather liking the effect.

Moving about the apartment, he quickly gathers what he thinks will be of need to him, most of the items fitting in the various pockets of his lined coat and one specific item being placed in a concealed holster. A taser he puts in a more visible spot, being legal and all, but even that is partly hidden behind his coat. And then there is his main medkit, the better stocked of two he keeps around, which he carries in a slightly worn doctor's bag. If anyone sees him leave they will probably think nothing of it; just another house call. Checking one last time to make sure he has everything he may need, he exits his apartment, which serves not only as his home but as his office as well.

A short taxi ride later and he is at his destination. 'Neutral Ground,' he ponders as he looks at the name of the place. 'Catchy.'

He does not tarry, instead making his way to the door and greeting the bouncer there politely, his voice soft, his accent undeniably British. "Good evening. I am here for the Edwards party please. If you would be so kind as to show me where that is," he says as 54 nuyen find their way to the ork's tip jar. An oddly specific amount, but it is what it is.


Synxol' lean golden-hued flesh entombs cords of tightly-woven vat-grown synthetic muscle affixed to bone by strengthened ligaments; bones that had been made inhumanly denser via bioware augmentation. Striking handsome features speak to a mixed heritage of Caucasian and Asian, high cheekbones, wide jaw, and cold cat-like eyes. Sinuous movements, of preternatural grace show as his feet embrace the ground as he moves. A lifetime has been spent chasing physical perfection, making him a specimen of physical development and conditioning. Densely-packed muscle, balance, flexibility, endurance, and dexterity have all been augmented to superhuman levels.

Black leather boots carve a swath through the winter's leavings. Cross draw dual holsters rest on hips entombed in the protective embrace of amoured polymer fabrics of his trench-style jacket. Not far from heavily-calloused hands, a menacing katana, its patina revealing that man years had drifted past since it was birthed from the blacksmith's hammer, its lacquered wooden sheath strapped into the inside of long jacket, peeking out at times as the winds playfully tug at the fabric.

Those on the street give him a wide berth, understanding him to be an apex predator forged by experience and tempered by blood.

Falling back into the shadows to lean for a time, JINX' cyberware augmented senses scour the area around the outside of Neutral Ground for potential threats. He leans with his hands casually crossed in front of him, palm on the opposing forearm. While the position appears initially non-threatening, one need only shift their gaze slightly downward to see that it places his hands a few inches from his dual Ares Predators. He had arrived hours earlier than agreed upon, and only abandons his sentry position when the time forces his hand.

Time to join the Edwards' Party.

Guarding his damaged ribs, Synxol remains silent through the exchanges with Mr. Johnson, preferring to imbibe a tumbler glass of hard liquor, enjoy a cancer stick, holding it up to the others gathered in a toast before taking his first drink.


Taking a sip from his beer, Red glances at the cheap comm laying on the table for a few moments. Mentally, the elf files away the still pics he captured of the Johnson and Stevens via the chrome that made his almost natural looking orbs. Just in case. Red would bet money that Johnson had already done the same with the runners.

"So Mister J, any say, health risks in store if one of the those who misappropriated the merchandise decided to pretend it was christmas?" the rigger asks. The elf glances at his half full beer, mildly curious to know if there was anything biological or perhaps radioactive to worry about. Just curious to know if we'll need a mop. Or a chem suit." Red adds with a faint grin.

That might slightly effect the price he was willing to be shot at for.


"Hmm..with so many variables and unknowns, perhaps the pay should be on some kind of sliding scale? Its one thing to swipe the cargo from a group of go-gangers, but quite another to tangle with a corporate response team or one of the big criminal organizations, what!"

Edmund keeps his eyes hooded, but his hand close to his super warhawk, just in case!


Male Human Fixer

"Health risks? No, nothing like that. From what I understand, there was nothing inherently hazardous in the shipment." Mister Johnson slots the dataspike into the MetaLink and flicks his finger a bit. An ARO blooms with an itemized manifest.

"Foodstuffs, medical supplies, building materials, construction chemicals..." he rattles off a short list of goods. Nothing stands out as something you couldn't get at a well-stocked KongWalMart.

"The small arms and ammunition have already been accounted for, so that's something at least." Mister Johnson smiles and shrinks the ARO. "I believe this means you are interested, depending on the funds available?"


Was this automated transport or driver and security? Did you get screwed over by disgruntled employees or do you just have drek matrix security?

Ahlwin was not built to be physically intimidating or confidently overbearing, but his tolerance for vague job parameters was completely atrophied.

You're willing to hire professionals to retrieve soy, bandages, and 2x4s - but your employer wasn't willing to spring for an RFID tracker on his product?


Male Human Fixer

"First of all, I am willing to exchange nuyen on behalf of a party for the services of 'professionals'. I am in no way "hiring" any of you myself. Let's get that straight right here and now," Mister Johnson's eyes narrow as he places his nearly full glass of beer back on the table.

"You must be new to Seattle," he snorts in derision. "You know what people don't have in Redmond? Food, medicine, basics of human civilization, that kinda stuff? Yeah, that. Of course, if you all are not interested in work, perhaps I need to speak with some folks who are."

He seems slightly agitated, but not enough to get up and walk away. Not yet, at least.


Synxol's eyes fall on Steven and remain there for a time, taking the ork's measure in terms of suggestions of armaments and the appearance of combat acumen.

A lifetime of forsaking worldly pleasures had given him the perspective that food was not partaken for pleasure. Food was fuel, and nothing more. He had eaten less than one would expect for a man his size, and carrying his same muscle mass, perhaps that is why he carried little in the way of padding. It was enough to give a mother fits.

As of late he imbibed the bulk of his calories through hard liquor.

A slight twitch plays along the length of his hand, causing him to eye the offending vat-grown synthetic musculature of his left arm, flexing the hand several times under close scrutiny. The Alpha 'ware was brand new, evinced by the seepage-stained Telfa (tm) dressings that bedecked his ravaged body, and as such he had not fully acclimatized to his new speed, or the loss of humanity it entailed. He stoically accepts the wounds associated with plying his trade, showing no sign of discomfort despite how deep the rusty scalpel had bitten.

Synxol's fingers trace the ridges upon his glass as a form of impromptu occupational therapy for fine-tune coordination. So much attention is required that it takes him a moment to realize that negotiations were breaking down.

Words were not his weapon of choice, only drawing them from their holster when needed, and as such he remains humbly silent, nodding to those that fill the air with their ejaculations of sound and sending his attention about the room for possible threats.


Female Japanese Elf | B.2 A.7/9 R.5/6 S.1/2 C.7 I.5 L.5 W.3 | R|I 11+2d6 (00) | Limits PMS: 5/6/7 | Stun 10/00, Phys 9/00: Conscious, -0 | Defend: Std 11, Blk/Dge +4, Parry +5, Full 20 | Armor: 14 | DR: 3+ |

Hawatari has already performed a threat analysis, not only of the individuals in the room but of those at the table; she knows exactly what order she'd take them out in if push came to shove, which she expects will not be the case. A glance aside as the Great White Hunter moving his hand quite near to his revolver - really, a revolver!! - made her lips purse slightly, but she lifts a hand towards the datajacked human male in a 'ease up' gesture, and speaks to the Johnson in English that is accented with Japanese and rich with the wordplay loved by those who speak Sperethiel.

"What these gentlemen mean is that we are professionals, and while the amount you are offering is not a price that would draw the attention of professionals such as we, we are not unsympathetic to the plight of the average Barrens dweller in need of food, shelter, health care, and the other simple necessities of life. 'Hooding', every agent of the shadows knows, is something that benefits all involved. Part of those sympathies, however, resonate with our own needs - food, shelter, health care, and the other simple necessities of life, which - as you know - are so very difficult to acquire in Redmond. While such concerns do impel us to ask for the more sizeable sum of ¥2000 each, we are certainly willing to negotiate in good faith should you be able to introduce us to other concerned citizens such as yourself who can enable us to acquire the bare necessities, or assist us in discounted acquisition thereof, or even - and I but say this in anticipation of further negotiation - the knowledge of what we might expect in renumeration, should we detain for ... your interested party ... the rogue or rogues who have re-routed your community-building shipment."

Too long? Tuned out when she got to 'gentlemen'? 'Two thousand, but that's negotiable if you can get us introduced to decent contacts. And how much are you payin' for the thief??'


Male Human Fixer

"Ah, I see there is one with a mind for negotiations. My heart rests easier now," Mister Johnson looks at Hawatari closely as she speaks.

"The price is for the goods and vehicle, minus Tarnish's reward. Couple of crates, there," he steeples his hands before continuing.

"Alive, the thief brings 10k, dead 5."

Sczarni

Male Cuddly L'il Fuzzy Hamster Psion (Telepath) 20

Once everyone has chimed in with their 2 cents towards the negotiation (or elected not to), I am going to need a Negotiation + Charisma Test from the primary speaker. At this point, I assume Hawatari.

You are free to assist with a Teamwork Test for this roll. Each assistant rolls their own Negotiation + Charisma Test, and any hits add 1 Die and +1 to the limit of the primary negotiator. That character can add bonus dice up to the rating of the leader's rating in the skill.

As a Negotiation roll, Mister Johnson will be rolling opposed to you. You want to gain Net Hits on this test, with each Net Hit typically yielding a certain amount of extra nuyen over the initial offer. Edge can be used during this test, whether for a Second Chance (re-rolling your failures), Push The Limit (add edge pool before rolling, ignore all limits, and any 6's can be re-rolled). There are other options for using Edge, but they won't really apply in this instance.


Female Japanese Elf | B.2 A.7/9 R.5/6 S.1/2 C.7 I.5 L.5 W.3 | R|I 11+2d6 (00) | Limits PMS: 5/6/7 | Stun 10/00, Phys 9/00: Conscious, -0 | Defend: Std 11, Blk/Dge +4, Parry +5, Full 20 | Armor: 14 | DR: 3+ |

A slight hand gesture from the somewhat-sickly-looking Japanese elf indicates acknowledgement, though not agreement; she smiles pleasantly at the man. "That Tarnish is rewarded, we do not contest; that we are rewarded as well is our aim, the more so as we are the ones going out to locate and retrieve the individual, with presumably some risk to our own lives and limbs. With sufficient information, we would I have no doubt consider it most agreeable to acquire the thief as well as the goods he has stolen - information as to identity, appearance, metatype, that sort of thing. Presumably you or your agent Tarnish possesses this information, and will turn it over to us in order to further our mutual goals." She isn't about to pay good money for info the Johnson should want to give her. On the other hand, ten kay ... hm.

"Perhaps instead of the twenty-four I have proposed, we might settle on twenty-three for the prime package, eighteen for the sub-optimal, and thirteen for the goods alone." She's giving away a thousand of her bid, almost a hundred and fifty nuyen per person, but it'd still be three-fifty more than his opening offer. And it is a good cause, right?

Qe'Vela (also with a pool of 8) is about the only one who reeeeally should be helping with this; Harker has some charm but no skill (Defaulting Pool of 3), and everyone else is an, um, negotiating disaster. ;) Alas, with a skill rating of only 1, at best either of us would be tossing 9 dice. For this, though, I'm willing to spend Edge to Push the Limit to start out with, in the hopes that my most-wonderful (ha!) writing will earn it back for me in the nature of 'good roleplaying'. ;)


Cthulhu-Spawn DM/crazy person

Red simply shrugs at the news that there wasn't anything overly hazardous. That pretty much cut his idea for attempting to get a little more nuyen out of the Johnson, not that he was skilled with haggling or anything. He looks at the floating AR image, observing the cargo manifest and transport vehicle.

The female elf starting talking, sounding like a corp sales rep, which relaxes the Mister J. 'Sounds like the corp chicka with the silver tongue has this covered,' Red thinks, taking a sip of his beer. Listening the the conversation, the elf's eyes move over the surrounds that he could see without shifting his head.

With a thought, the rigger files away the pics of the others at the table into same file as the Johnson and bodyguard. More out of habit then any true paranoia. 'Well, maybe a little bit of paranioa,' Red thinks with a micro flash of a grin.


Male Human (Chelaxian) Occultist 2; AC 14, touch 12, flat-footed 12, CMD 15; HP 20/20; Fort +6*, Ref +3*, Will +5* (+2 vs. emotion and fear); Initiative +3; Perception +7*, Sense Motive +6; MF 3/3 (Abj), 3/3 (Div), 1/1 (Tra); Sanity 40/40, Threshold 3, Edge 20

Nathaniel stays mostly quiet while the others comment on the job offer and its potential rewards with the Japanese elf taking it a step further and starting to negotiating for a better deal. Listening intently he cannot help but smile. She can certainly talk.

"The lady is quite... verbose, would you not say?" The question is directed at the Johnson mostly, although it is as much a question as it is an observation and statement of fact. "That does not mean she does not also have a point however. I do recognize the retrieval of the good stolen as being for a good cause of course, but the potential reward should be equivalent to the task, yes? And she does seem to not only make a good case, at least in my mind, but she is also reasonable as far as the... raise she is asking for is concerned."

Nathan lacks the woman's charm and silver tongue, to be sure, which is why he tries to appeal to logic rather than sentiment.

No idea if this helps or hurts as I am at work and without resources, but here you go.

Negotiation+Charisma (Default, Teamwork Test): 3d6 ⇒ (3, 4, 1) = 8

Also, who is Qe'Vela?


Synxol had been a denizen of the streets for a number of years now, and had made it a point to pay attention to those that slithered about the streets since his arrival within Seattle.

Each of those in attendance held themselves in the manner which boded very well that they were sharing this job together. These were cold-eyed professionals, rather than the drek that merely postured and soiled themselves when the fit hit the shan.

A small smile finds its way to his lips, which is momentarily obscured as he exhales a volume of smoke, its contrails lingering for a moment about his face.

This should be fun.


Glancing at his rather disappointingly warm beer, Red looks back at the AR images floating above the commlink. As the elf considers possible difficulties that might arise, Red listens to the others haggle with Mister J. He might be able to pick a few pointers, helping him to pry a little more nuyen from future Johnson.

Looking at the image of the transport truck, Red hopes the truck was in one piece. And if the spirits where feeling generous, rigged. That would make his life so much easier.


Female Japanese Elf | B.2 A.7/9 R.5/6 S.1/2 C.7 I.5 L.5 W.3 | R|I 11+2d6 (00) | Limits PMS: 5/6/7 | Stun 10/00, Phys 9/00: Conscious, -0 | Defend: Std 11, Blk/Dge +4, Parry +5, Full 20 | Armor: 14 | DR: 3+ |

Negotiation 8 + Edge 1: 9d6 ⇒ (1, 6, 1, 1, 2, 3, 1, 3, 2) = 20
Exploding: 1d6 ⇒ 2

Ugh. One hit, 4 ones, which - by great good fortune - barely misses being a glitch.


Male Human Fixer

10d6 ⇒ (5, 2, 4, 3, 3, 5, 3, 3, 4, 2) = 34 Well, Mr. J only beat you by 1, so there's that. :)

"I think the amounts I described serve as adequate recompense for this task. After all, it amounts to a simple item-retrieval job in the end. And a good portion of your legwork has already been provided."

Mister Johnson flashes a smile at the Japanese elf, raising an eyebrow in slight expectation.

"Can I relay your agreement to the employer? If so, that commlink contains all the data we've discussed, as well as contact info for me."


Synxol watches the intricate interplay of the negotiations with interest. Many of the subtle nuances are lost to him, though he feels the anxiety wrought by a slight hesitation when an attack was warranted, or too much aggression that cost them the fish.

Lighting a smoke, he leans back, and provides overwatch.


Female Japanese Elf | B.2 A.7/9 R.5/6 S.1/2 C.7 I.5 L.5 W.3 | R|I 11+2d6 (00) | Limits PMS: 5/6/7 | Stun 10/00, Phys 9/00: Conscious, -0 | Defend: Std 11, Blk/Dge +4, Parry +5, Full 20 | Armor: 14 | DR: 3+ |

Anxiety and bad timing gets you killed in the field; it just as readily gets your throat cut at the negotiating table. In both places, friendly fire can put you down far faster than the aimed rounds of the enemy. The elf female's expression doesn't change a jot from its pleasant expression, though if murderthoughts (or rather, those not backed up by actual magical ability) could kill, Harker himself might be laid waste. "Of course, Mr. Johnson. We'll get right on it."

Collecting dataspike and standing, the woman glances around at the five men who have been selected to operate with her at this time. "Shall we?" she says politely to them, before stepping smoothly away from the table and starting to wend through the tables on her way to the door.


Edmund gets up first and goes to hold the door open for the young lady, as they leave the meet.
"So now where to? Someplace to do a little, what do you Americans call it, oh yes, Leg Work. My place is not too far from here. It is a modest accommodation, but should suffice for the time being. Or would you rather just jump right in and head out into these Barrens of Redmond?"


Nodding to Steven and the Mister J, Red gets up and follows after Sales Lady.

"So, what exactly are you guys driving to get around with?" Red asks as they make their way away from the table. "I'm imagining a small fleet of taxis." the elf says with a half-grin.

"Anybody else familiar with the Redmond area?" the rigger asks the other runners.


Male Human (Chelaxian) Occultist 2; AC 14, touch 12, flat-footed 12, CMD 15; HP 20/20; Fort +6*, Ref +3*, Will +5* (+2 vs. emotion and fear); Initiative +3; Perception +7*, Sense Motive +6; MF 3/3 (Abj), 3/3 (Div), 1/1 (Tra); Sanity 40/40, Threshold 3, Edge 20

"I am afraid I am not as old a hand in all this as some of you gentlemen quite obviously are," Nathaniel says conversationally. "And lady," he quickly adds, amending himself. "Quick study that I like to believe myself to be, I am still learning the ropes as it were."


"Where not to go is as far as I've gotten with Seattle. Learned that the quick way after I got some custom speed holes put in my last ride. Stumbling into the Barrens, much less anyone's official turf, is never a good idea. So, Lord Fauntleroy's place sounds good for now. I'll come back with some portable equipment and snacks."

"I sure as hell hope you guys didn't eat anything in here..."


Quaffing the watered down remnants of his glass in a single pull, and enjoying the burning in his stomach, Synxol climbs his way to his feet and falls into step with the others, leaving contrails of smoke to mark his trail.


Female Japanese Elf | B.2 A.7/9 R.5/6 S.1/2 C.7 I.5 L.5 W.3 | R|I 11+2d6 (00) | Limits PMS: 5/6/7 | Stun 10/00, Phys 9/00: Conscious, -0 | Defend: Std 11, Blk/Dge +4, Parry +5, Full 20 | Armor: 14 | DR: 3+ |

"No."

After her multisyllabic complex-sentence teasing of the Johnson, the simple single word might come as something of a shock to the five males she has found herself grouped with. She pauses a few steps outside the door, glancing first one way down the street, then the other, gauging the direction that will most quickly lead to a bit of privacy, away from the 'bikers'. Even the Bellevue rich-kid thrill gangers are more serious about their action than these baka support-group bikers. This isn't seventy-five years ago; you wear leathers, ride bikes, group up, and you go through some gang or go-gang territory, you're begging for a 'shots fired' call - not that you'll get one, half the time. Fraggin' wannabes. Deciding that hey, Touristville is right over there, she gestures to the five. "Follow."

Presuming the males come with her, it isn't until she reaches the first corner away from the 'Neutral Ground' bar that she resumes speaking, standing there to wait for traffic to clear enough for the six of them to cross. "First things first: security. I don't want to know your real name yet; you don't want to know mine. If you haven't come up with a working name, don't worry, we'll give you one. My name is Hawatari; 'Hawa' in combat, but please not out of it. We don't discuss each other when we're anywhere near the Johnson; the employer is our first, last, and most significant point of failure. We also do not discuss each other or the job in public without basic protections - that means either being on the move, or else after a bug sweep and a white-noise generator working. You also don't want to know where I live, and I'm not about to walk into your home either. If after this or a few more jobs we decide to work together as a semi-permanent team, we'll set up a workhouse - that's a place where we can get together, crash for a couple nights if need be, but that's not a home for any of us. It's also not a safehouse, so don't think of it as that. We never go there right after pulling a job; there are people who hire out safehouses, and if we need to, we'll start getting a hold of them. Finally, after a job, we never talk about it outside of each other. Bragging to the bartender is a quick trip to a six-by-four plot of land, or a ghoul's gullet."

She crosses the street, shifting her overcoat with a frown, as though she's not used to wearing one - or wearing that one. "That leads us to financials. I've watched some teams implode because they claimed the rigger didn't do anything to help the run, so they ripped him off - or the mage, or the decker. We work together, that's not going to happen. There's six of us; equal shares, always. If we work as a team, then either two or four shares to the team fund; it'll not only make it a clean division of monies, but team expenses - like infopayments, job-necessary gear, the cost for the workhouse, temporary loans for gear improvement, and emergency funds for vehicle repairs and, ah, 'health insurance' - will be more balanced instead of always having to come out of our own pockets. Fund expenses require two-thirds vote approval, otherwise it's paid back into the fund. You get beat up all the fragging time, we'll stop paying for your healing and teach you to not wise off to ticked-off dwarven explosive experts."

She stops a few feet away from a random alley, perhaps halfway to Touristville, its lights shining behind her. "That leads to competencies - what we bring to the job, and what we keep away from the job." Here she turns to stare at Synxol. "What we keep away from the job is addictions and impaired judgement. Unless it's a specific solution to a short-term need for a competency - deepweed, kamikaze, whatever - we take no substances. One beer - half a beer, less - to be social during the meet is fine. A whiskey is not. You don't drink at the meet, you don't do a line of novacoke, take a hit of tempo, or run a moodchip or BTL at any time during a run. Unless you think you have time to take a shower, you don't smoke during or after a meet or at any time during a run unless it's right before your shower, because one of the things chemical sensors key in on is smoke, particularly tobacco smoke. Should we work together long-term, the only things allowed at the workhouse are alcohol, tobacco smoked outside, and the 'specific solutions' I mentioned, in which we do not overindulge. I don't give frag-all what you do on your own time, in your own doss; if a run comes up and you're not available, we will find someone without your issues. I find you - and I mean any of you -" and here she sweeps her eyes across those of the rest of the men as well, as if in challenge "- getting wasted on a job or at the workhouse, I will force myself to call people I habitually slaughter on sight in order to vanish your corpse. If your indulgence leads to serious injury of another team member, I will make of your death a thing of urban legend that Barrens trolls tell their offspring in order to shut up and go the frag to sleep."

Eyes closing as she inhales, she pauses for a moment to settle after the intensity of that 'drugs're bad, m'kay?' declaration, then turns and resumes walking towards Touristville. "All right. So. I'm what's described as a low-impact run-and-gun ronin, or street samurai, specializing in close-quarters and urban combat. Due to a recent catastrophic event in my life, I've lost access to most of what twenty-five years in the business gets you; I don't even have a vehicle at the moment. However, in that time I've picked up some amount of politesse as well, made a couple of very good friends. By your general silences, I deduce that most of you are less than skilled at the social arts; two of you, by your vocalizations," and here she fixes first Ahlwin, then Harker, with a calm, level gaze, "have proven your ineptitude. Until you have gained some practice, please do not chime in; send me a message with your concerns, and allow me to bring it up. That said, you will all learn some basics of negotiation and etiquette, because sometimes the only person some hardass will negotiate with will be one of you. For my part, I will always angle for the best deal for the team from whatever Johnson by whom we may be employed. That means, in part, that I will almost always be willing to take a lower monetary payout in exchange for access - to people of interest or to discounted or hard-to-acquire gear, whether that be weaponry from Ares, implants from Evo, magical gear from Mitsuhama, vehicles from Saeder-Krupp, electronics from Renraku, whatever - unless we've recently been able to take advantage of a near-identical situation, or we're in greater need of the cash. We will take corporate scrip only under very rare circumstances, nuyen by preference, and national currencies only if we're planning on staying in that nation for longer than a week. If you like, we can hold a discussion on the specifics before we go to the meet, because sometimes a body just needs to get rent paid - which is why we took this craptastic payout."

She looks around at each male in turn, four humans and another elf. "So that's me. I can tell by the way you move that you, you, and you," and here she nods to the near-mute Jinx, the Great White Hunter Sir Edmund, and the other elf Red, "have had some reflex boosting done; that's good. Share what else your specialties are, and we can be about the business of making a few hundred nuyen each. You perceive, our time limit is that of the thief, not the Johnson; we can spare a few moments, though not forever."


Male Human (Chelaxian) Occultist 2; AC 14, touch 12, flat-footed 12, CMD 15; HP 20/20; Fort +6*, Ref +3*, Will +5* (+2 vs. emotion and fear); Initiative +3; Perception +7*, Sense Motive +6; MF 3/3 (Abj), 3/3 (Div), 1/1 (Tra); Sanity 40/40, Threshold 3, Edge 20

"Fair enough. Point taken," Nathan says with a smile and a mock bow. There may even be a hint of sarcasm behind the words and mannerisms, but only a hint.

"Since we are using aliases, and it is a good idea to do so, I will give you that," he continues, "I have been called Domino more than once." He spreads his arms as if presenting his black and white self and then rolls his eyes just a little. "I cannot possibly imagine why." There is that bit of driness of wit again.

"I am trained in both first aid and more advanced medicine, so I can probably help keep you alive -or mostly alive- if or when the need arises," he goes on, seeing as how they are all supposed to inform each other of their particular skillsets. "And I can fire a gun, though I am hardly as skilled in that as... well, probably all of you."

He takes a deep breath and sighs softly before continuing. "Other than that, I am rather handy with a bit of magic, if I do say so myself. I know a thing or two about the arcane and the occult, to put it just a tad dramatically if you will permit me, and I can actually use the arcane and the occult. No bloody great explosions of fire and brimstone from me, not just yet anyway, but a bit of healing, a bit of illusion and some more stuff are right up my alley, as they say." He shrugs. "I can get into particulars if you so wish. Unlike the mundane magicians of old, I find that trying to keep the mystery alive by not revealing one's tricks may very well get one's partners sufficiently dead."


Red simply shrugs his shoulders. He wondered just how much smoke corp chica was blowing up their hoops. He doubted she would be squatting in the area by choice. 'Probably screwed up some higher ups tea time,' he thinks with a snort of amusement.

"Red," the elf says with half-grin. "Mom, I've got to grab my wheels, before you lead us too far away. And there is a low end hotel in the next block at the end of what remains of a strip mall. Fairly decent temp squat, and cheap, 'case your wondering. The rooms, are not clean. But the are private. Oh, awesome pointer about the chem sniffers. In all seriousness." The elf turns around and heads back to the Neutral Ground. "I don't think anybody actually bothers with the name, it's changed four times in the last month. Can't miss it."

"As far as my skill set, I'm pretty damn decent with anything on 2 or more wheels, rigged or not. Boats, meh, not so much." the elf looks up at the polluted night sky. "Still haven't gotten around to learning how to fly" he adds with an almost disappointed sigh. "I've got a degree of working knowledge when it comes to drones, honestly nothing spectacular."

Red runs a hand through his red short, spiky hair.

"As far as fireworks go, I'm average to decent with automatics. I'll be back in like 2 minutes to grab my bike." the elf turns with a jaunty wave over his shoulder. Dumping the last of his warm beer in the gutter, the elf drops the bottle in a guttering burn barrel.

Rounding the corner, Red nods to a few local bikers and hops on his Harley. Sliding the jack into it's true place in his skull, the bike comes to life a few moments later. The rigger eases the bike back out of his parking spot. Returning a couple of nods, Red dips out of the alleyway and heads back to catch up with the other runners.

The elf would deny it, but, he was a bit curious to know more about the others.


"Well now, I have not heard such a diatribe since my senior year at Eton! All well said, young lady. I have never needed to use a, what do you call it...street name? My work, up until now, has been legitimate. I hunted. Name the creature and I probably can tell you a story that would set your hair on end. As to all this 'cloak and dagger' tosh, well I am new as a babe to it, and am willing to follow you lead my dear, however I am not some 'rookie' to be ordered about. I have more years in my profession than the lot of you do in life, and I will thank you to remember that and speak respectfully. I am have fallen on hard times, but I will not put up with being treated poorly. I hope we see eye to eye, yes?"


Ahlwin knew he wasn't the most apt individual in the language arts. But that verbose recitation of the Idiots Guide to Shadowrunning™ felt half-deserved and left the rest of him pining for anarchy.

"Decker. Al works. Gone through more fake SINs than toes – street names felt redundant."

Not worth mentioning the endless teasing from Missy.

"I know how to patch myself up, skin and chrome. Just don’t expect chop-shop quality. I prefer my taser to anything else, with a high priority on not being seen until that point. So if I have to pull a pistol – know that the drek has well and truly hit the fan. That being said, if we need to go loud – give me 20 seconds and a detonator to make it happen."


Synxol pads along in the manner of a wraith, each silent step revealing preternatural dexterity natural and augmented through 'ware.

The sickly-sweet stench of tobacco smoke clings to his softly-uttered and miserly-hoarded words, "'JINX.' Razor boy. Close combat." A calloused hand remains close to his waist at all times, and the firearm that eagerly awaits behind the flap of his duster.

Sczarni

Male Cuddly L'il Fuzzy Hamster Psion (Telepath) 20

Red's info is spot on. A couple of blocks down the road lies the remains of a strip mall. What was once a series of retail stores has been converted to a large mass of cheap rooms for rent. A cheap AR icon showing "VACANCY" glows over the entrance.

A handful of vehicles, all beat up and dirty, sit in the parking lot. Each of them shows obvious damage and haphazard repair.


Nodding to the other runners as he rolls by, Red grins and points towards the cheap squat. "Meet ya up there in a few seconds. I'll snag us a room real quick."

Hugging himself to the big bikes frame, Red roars off. He is nice enough to not gun the engine, figuring the others might need their hearing. A few moments later, the elf pulls into the parking lot, giving the other vehicles a little bit of "respectful" space.

Sliding the jack cable into a pocket, rendering his Harley locked until you jacked in, and had the right passphrase. One day he was going to have to rig up some sort of shock charge if someone tried to steal it. 'Someday. Like after I find a suborbital full of loaded credsticks,' Red thinks with a snort of amusement as he walks through the door. Glancing around, the rigger looks for the office. Red mentally clicks on his Wires as he glances around.

'I'm curious to know how corp chica knew I had a reflex job with them off. Perhaps movement, but I don't think my motions with them off are unnatural looking. I'll have to check on that,,' Red thinks about his camera setup at his shop. Pretty sure I haven't slotted off a corp enough to warrant a Security Profile.'


Female Japanese Elf | B.2 A.7/9 R.5/6 S.1/2 C.7 I.5 L.5 W.3 | R|I 11+2d6 (00) | Limits PMS: 5/6/7 | Stun 10/00, Phys 9/00: Conscious, -0 | Defend: Std 11, Blk/Dge +4, Parry +5, Full 20 | Armor: 14 | DR: 3+ |

Sorry, Red - didn't realize you didn't have your wires active. Didn't imagine you wouldn't have them live at a meet, or even just in Redmond as a matter of policy!!

The Japanese elven woman nods to Harker/Domino. "Want to keep the name, or go with something else? And are - or were- you board-certified in a medical field? I knew a physician-mage in the shadows once, went by the sobriquet 'White Mage'. Long gone, you could take it up; keep you from getting confused with the four other 'Dominos' in Seattle."

After listening to Red she looks about to answer him, but then he turns back to head for 'Neutral Ground'. She pauses, then sighs and shakes her head. "Might as well go on to this hotel he talked about; we can turn around there."

Sir Edmund receives a glance in reaction to his warm response. "King Pelinore," she says, referring to the king and knight of the Round Table who was always hunting after the Questing Beast, "I could tell you tales that would make you swear your soul to pacifism and retreat to a Tibetian Buddhist monastery for the rest of your life - but I don't tend to talk about previous jobs. Respect, however, is earned. You will have - like everyone else - courtesy, which I believe I have given. If not, then I am more than willing to be ready to give you satisfaction on a field of honor."

With Al's commentary, she smiles, although those who have spent time in the shadows - or really, anyone who's seen any of the trids or sims that have glorified 'shadowrunning' - should be able to spot the major differences between 'the beginner's way' and 'the professional way.' The latter - only elements of which she's spoken on, after all - is a lot quieter, and a hell of a lot more likely to get the job done. "Al it is. And I'm with you on the 'keep-it-quiet' front; nothing draws a security guard's attention faster than a ready weapon. Good to know that you can do demolitions work, too."

Jinx's reticence and threat-ready movement cause her to give him a long look as the rumble of Red's Harley approaches. "I can tell we're going to have to work on you. Step one - relax, or at least appear to. You can be near the edge without constantly looking like it; the second fastest thing to draw a sec-guard's attention is someone looking like they're all wound up and ready to open fire."

Hawatari then turns as Red arrives and speaks, but then he's off again. With a sigh, she keeps moving, and as she arrives with the other four, she holds up a hand to the others. "Wait here for a moment," she says, and speeds up her steps to follow Red into ' ooms Ch ap'. Stepping up close behind him, she murmurs softly to him, "Unless you brought a bug sniffer and a white noise generator, we need to keep moving."


The momentary burn of his cheap cigarette's cherry reveals a small smile, which permits the eager smoke to find an exit from his lungs.

Synxol finds a wall to hold up, leaning into it as it leans into him, and waits with eternal patience.


"Hmmm? Oh, no, I do not. Where do you guys plan on waiting while I go get some more appropriate wheels for the group? There is no way an autotaxi is going into the Barrens, and the lot of us on bikes would attract the wrong type of attention." Red looks over his shoulder at the other elf, speaking to Hawatari. While the rigger's cybered eyes sweep the inside of the converted mall, he sounds almost bored, disinterested even.

Hawatari's keen eyes can pick up that Red more than likely activated his Reflexes. His few movements were unnaturally smooth and precise now. The big clue was that the rigger almost spun on his heel when he heard footsteps behind him on the pavement, hand twitching towards his hidden Crusader. Seeing Hawatari, Red appeared to relax a bit, hand moving back to his side, and smirk wiggled across his face. "Got me."

"Are you familiar with the local area? Cause you kind of stand out, no offense," Red says to the corp chica as they walk out and back to the others standing around his Harley. He had plastered a half-grin on his sharp angled face. The rigger looks over at the other elf running an appraising eye over her clothing. "If someone managed to hit you with a truck to knock you out, your clothes along would feed a brood of orks for a few weeks. And I doubt that the shipment has left the Barrens, so we're more than likely going to be mucking about there. Hope everyone has had their shots." The elf says with a quiet chuckle.

"What's your plan, boss? the rigger asks of the elf when the reach the others. His unblinking green shot with chrome gaze sweeps the local area.

No worries :) I would figure having your wires on during a meet would be almost torture. Sitting there, all jazzed up, and everyone... is... moving... so .... slowly. Probably helps to drive Runners a little nuts with them on all the time. But that's my thoughts on wired reflexes. It has that big essence bite for a good reason.


Male Human (Chelaxian) Occultist 2; AC 14, touch 12, flat-footed 12, CMD 15; HP 20/20; Fort +6*, Ref +3*, Will +5* (+2 vs. emotion and fear); Initiative +3; Perception +7*, Sense Motive +6; MF 3/3 (Abj), 3/3 (Div), 1/1 (Tra); Sanity 40/40, Threshold 3, Edge 20

"Somehow I find that having a nickname that does not stand out so much may actually be a boon rather than a hindrance," Nathan comments with a shrug. "Besides, I think I may have gotten used to it. Of course if something more appropriate presents itself during our working together, then by all means, suggest away. And I may very well change it."

"And to answer your question," he goes on, moving to the subject of his training, "I am indeed board-certified as a general practitioner." He smiles a crooked smile. "You know, a little of everything, but not too much of any one thing. A sort of medical jack of all trades, or at least many."

He seems to brighten up then as something occurs to him. "How does that sound then? Jack of Trades, or just Jack for short?" He takes a deep breath. "And it is delightfully vague, is it not?"


"Sounds good, chummer. Nice, slight spin on "John Doe," I dig it," Red says with a micro-flash smile and a nod. "A handle is a good way for people to know the you that does the all of the fun, off the books work. Keeps the "Legitimate you" safe. Well, unless someone records you doing something, or you leave some blood or skin behind." The elf lets out a quiet laugh.

Briefly, Red wonders what a fragging doctor was doing in the shadows. 'None of my business, I suppose. Still curious though.' the rigger thinks to himself.

Sczarni

Male Cuddly L'il Fuzzy Hamster Psion (Telepath) 20

While the crew talks among themselves by the strip mall, one of the denizens of the street approaches. Dirty, smelling of sweat, beer, and rot, he's obviously seen better days. Several layers drape over his torso, and the rips in his jeans show more cloth beneath. His hands shake slightly, open wide at his side.

H-h-hey there chummers," He stutters in English. "You all need a guide 'round these parts? Mebbe some directions. N-n-name of a guy with chems?"


Female Japanese Elf | B.2 A.7/9 R.5/6 S.1/2 C.7 I.5 L.5 W.3 | R|I 11+2d6 (00) | Limits PMS: 5/6/7 | Stun 10/00, Phys 9/00: Conscious, -0 | Defend: Std 11, Blk/Dge +4, Parry +5, Full 20 | Armor: 14 | DR: 3+ |

"We could always go with first names," agrees Hawatari with the newly-christened 'Jack'. "I've always thought that using your real first name on a false ID is wisest - you respond naturally to someone calling it out, instead of having to remember 'oh, that's me'. And it's good to have a real physician - you've done your ER stint, so you'll be able to do some real physical work before throwing magic into the mix. Should get you introduced to the Bear Doctor society, if you aren't already acquainted."

Red earns a smile at the 'stick out' portion. "I do stick out around here somewhat, yes - but I've found it works. It's a peculiar mix, really. The clothes draw their focus; the weapons and the calm let them know they're not dealing with a lost little girl. And if they really want to put it to the test, well, I'm willing to oblige, if it doesn't inconvenience me. Unfortunately," she sighs, "I actually don't have much of anything else to wear; it's this or flats."

She leads the rigger back out to the others, and looks around for a moment before turning her eyes towards the self-identified decker. "Al, how fast can you set us up with a relatively-secure VPN? Red wants to go get us better group transport, and we can do some work while he's on the road."

Turning back to the rigger, she admits, "The Squatter's Mall hasn't really been my, ah, preferred location for acquisitions of black-market gear; I prefer Puyallup's Crime Mall, or at least a few of the individuals who work out of it. However, it's the place to start. Why don't you give Al your commcode, then get going? Tell us how long it'll take you, and we'll meet you back at Neutral Ground.

"Meanwhile, Al, would you be able to snag and share for us a map - an annotated satpic would be even better - of the Squatter's Mall environs? If you can slice into the traffic cams or GridGuide records for the 405 and identify our truck, you'll be our point man for starting to find it while we go talk to this 'Tarnish' fellow."

Then to King Pelinore, she adds, "Do you prefer working the long shot or the devastating one?" I.e. 'rifles or shotguns?'


Ahlwin shimmies his way between the group of hired guns – and downwind from the tour guide. Opening one of his smuggling compartments, he pulls his deck and makes some adjustments to slave the groups comm devices.

All group commlinks can be slaved, with permission...
Device Rating 3 + Firewall 6 = 9 against intruders

"I'll pull what I can from public networks before we start breaking laws out in the open."


JINX permits his commlink to be slaved as he works his way around the denizen of the street, casting the man with an appraising eye, until he takes up a position slightly behind him.


Na, chummer, were doing alright at the moment. But when the itch hits, we'll swing back by. That your squat? Red says, nodding in the direction from where the man came from. The elf holds out a crumpled 10 nuyen note for the tweaker. "You been living in the area long?"

Red looks back at the group, his cybered eyes meeting Hawatari's. He arches a sharp eyebrow slightly. They had just been talking about Tarnish, who, from what the Johnson mentioned operated out of the Squatter's Mall. Now they had a chance to possibly find him. Red waits for Hawatari's micro nod for yes, shake for no, before he would ask the "guide."

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