(4) New Orleans by Night (Shadowrun) (Inactive)

Game Master mdt

The year is 2060.

The world is changed, some say Awakened.

A lull in the flow of mystical energies has subsided, and magic has returned to the world. Elves, dwarfs, orks and trolls have assumed their true form, throwing off their human guise. Creatures of the wild have changed as well, transforming into beasts of myth and legend. The traditions and paths of magic have returned, and shamans and mages have developed their powers and found a place in the new world. Many aspects of the Awakening’s touch remain mysterious and unexplained.

Modern society struggles on, despite the odds, in an effort to assimilate the ways of magic into a technological world. The decades that followed the Awakening were years of turmoil, panic and confusion, as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse seemed to race across the Earth. Cultures that had never lost touch with their mystical past began to use magic against the great nations that had suppressed them for so long.

The vast, global telecommunications network collapsed under an assault by a mysterious computer virus. Nuclear missiles were launched, but failed to detonate. Dragons soared into the skies. Epidemics and famine ravaged the world’s populations. Clashes between newly Awakened races and the rest of humanity became common. All central authority crumbled and the world began to spiral down into a chaotic abyss.

But man and his kin are hearty animals. Out of the devastation and chaos, an unstable new social order slowly emerged. Advanced simulated sensorium (simsense) technology aided in eradicating the last vestiges of the computer virus and replacing the old telecommunications network with the new virtual reality world of the Matrix. New nation-states of
Amerindians, elves, orks and dwarfs were formed.

Environmental degradation and toxic pollution has made many areas uninhabitable, inspiring eco groups to wage war on polluters and Awakened powers to use incredible magics to heal the earth. Central governments have balkanized into smaller nations and city-states as fear of the world’s changes drives wedges between peoples of different backgrounds.

Metroplexes, vast metropolitan sprawls, cover the landscape, swallowing large regions into the urban jungle. Unable to contain civil unrest and massive crime waves, police services have been privatized or contracted out to corporations.

Megacorporations have achieved extraterritoriality and become the new world superpowers, a law unto themselves. An entire world speaks their language, as the nuyen has become the global monetary standard. They play a deadly game, venturing into the shadows to get an edge on the competition.

Meanwhile, they house their corporate families in secure enclaves and compounds, safe behind layers of security and indoctrination. Outside these arcologies and gated communities, whole stretches of sprawl have become ungovernable.

Gangs rule the streets, and the forgotten masses grow, lacking even a System Identification Number (SIN) to give them any rights. These outcasts, dissidents and rebels live as the dregs of society, squatting in long-abandoned buildings, surviving by crime and predatory instinct. Many of them attempt to escape their miserable existence by slotting addictive BTL (Better-Than-Life) chips, living vicariously through someone else’s senses. Some of them band together, and some just seek
to gain their own twisted forms of power.

Technology, too, has changed people. No longer just flesh, many have turned to the artificial enhancements of cyberware to make themselves more than human. Some acquire implants that allow them to directly interface with machines, either as deckers who run the Matrix with their cyberdecks and programs, or as riggers who jack into vehicles and remote
drones, becoming one with the machine. Others seek to push the envelope of physical capabilities, testing themselves on the street against other street samurai. Stronger, smarter, faster is the human of today.
In the world of 2060, the metroplexes are monsters casting long shadows.

And it’s in the cracks between the giant corporate structures that shadowrunners find their home. Entire societies live and die in a black-market underworld, exploited and abused, yet powerful in their own way. Crime syndicates such as the Mafia and yakuza have grown explosively as their networks provide anything that people will buy.

Shadowrunners are the professionals of this culture, where selfsufficiency is vital. When the megacorps want a job done but don’t want to dirty their hands, it’s a shadowrun they need, and they turn to the runners, the only ones who can do it. Though a shadowrunner’s existence is not listed in any but the most classified of governmental or corporate databases, the demand for his or her services is high. Deckers are employed to slide like a whisper through the visualized databases of giant corporations, spiriting away the only thing of real value—information.

Street samurai are enforcers-for-hire whose combat skills and reflexes make them the ultimate urban predator. And magicians, who possess an ancient gift to wield and shape the magical energies that now surround the Earth, are much sought-after, for obvious reasons. Shadowrunners sell their skills to survive, taking on the illegal and dangerous tasks that the corps are incapable of performing for themsleves.

In New Orleans, the shadows are the deepest and darkest, and it is here that a shadowrunner’s reputation is made or broken. So strap on your gun, prepare your spells and grab your cyberdeck, chummer … it’s time to run the shadows!

Just dotting

OK, we'll get started. I'm still doing audits on the characters, but it's hard with so many. I may have to get people to make tweaks after game start as things come up.

Newbies were brought by their contact.

Arnaud's of New Orleans, one of the oldest restaurants in New Orleans. Established in 1918, the restaurant is 143 years old, and one of the Old Money spots in New Orleans.

Your contacts set you up for a meet with a Mr. Johnson at Arnaud's. It's not at all the type of place you're used to meeting in. Usually it's grungy bars or conference rooms at two star hotels.

For the newbies, it really gives the idea of being a Shadowrunner an artificial shine that it doesn't normally have. The bar has been taken out for the night for the meeting. A troll in a three-piece suit stands behind the bar as you are allowed in. You arrive in the order you post.

"Good evening. I am Bartholomew, you may call me Barth if you wish. Mr. Johnson will be running late, unfortunately, and he has requested me to ask you to please wait. Menu's are at the bar..." He waves a hand to the menus. "...and the bar is open, please let me know what you'd like. Mr. Johnson's compliments as compensation for the delay in the meeting." His voice is rich and deep, with an accent that is hard to place, but it doesn't sound native to the area. His nails are immaculately trimmed.

Always show up at least twenty minutes before the meet.

It isn't runner etiquette; it's operational paranoia. It's so you can scope out the surroundings, figure out your escape route in the case it's a trap, determine who's a plant and who's not, figure out which of the bystanders might get themselves involved (also called 'do something stupid'). It's what keeps you alive in a world where there really are people out to get you - people who want you dead in the worst way.

Tonight, Shugyōsha had showed up a half-hour early, spending the time watching the place, strolling around to check out the service entrances, stopping in at the places nearby. It was relatively easy for her to do, between the upscale armored clothing she wore and the fact that she actually lived in the Quarter. Alleys, back doors, the park behind the place, stairs and balconies - they were all pathways, and knowing how you could get through a place meant an increased chance of surviving the meet.

There are two ways she likes to go - be the first one to the meet, or the last one to the meet. She moves up to the bar's entrance ten minutes beforehand, stepping into the place to become the first one in. Why would he buy the place out for the night, and be late to his own meet? she wonders to herself for a moment. Of course - influence and money. The Japanese reserve keeps her face still, even as she nods courteously to Bartholomew. "Ice water, please, with lemon," she replies, accepting the easily-made pseudo-drink - it could, after all, be anything from gin to vodka - and starting to make a slow circuit of the room. Ostensibly she's looking with interest at the pictures and the knick-knacks; those serve as a cover for her checking out the other ways into and out of the room.

When she finally does settle down, it's in the back corner tables, almost hidden by the bar from the front door, but with her back to the wall and where she can see the other entrances to the room. The Mortimer 'Ulysses' coat goes on the hanger, though, which leaves her with 'only' four weapons, now somewhat more easily located ...

Being paranoid keeps me alive Cloudy thinks as he sits by the window of GW Fins, located across the street from Arnaud's on Bienville St. Seems someone has the same inclination, he observes as he watches Shugyōsha enter the restaurant. He nods his head approvingly, she’s artic.

He hurriedly pays his bill and heads across the street to the rendezvous. He stops and admires the old brick building and reads the name engraved on the ground in front of the entrance Arnoulds. Now there is some history, he thinks as he imagines all the noteworthy people who have passed through these doors.

He makes his way to the bar and orders a “Mint Julep” from the trog.

When he gets his drink he makes his way over to the corner table and takes a seat next to Shugyōsha. He ignores the menue and glances at his companion and says with a wink, ”You should try the Alligator Sausage, chummer.”

The double doors of the bar swing open, leading a man inside and seemingly drawing the ambience nearly two centuries backwards. A black cowboy hat perches on the head of the newcomer, under it the face of a man in his late fifties or early sixties. A thick brown duster hides the steps of the newcomer as leather boots thud heavy in the silent bar. An ornate revolver handle is visible on the man's left flank as he moves into the bar, eyes studying the environment, stopping for a moment at the barman and the only other customers.

Fancy place.

He takes a couple of slow steps to the bar, before sending the bartender a small smile from his wrinkled face.
"Gimme a whiskey, son, somethin' 'bout my age, please.", he says in a drawled Southern accent. Rude not to take advantage of the southern hospitality, now, ain't it. Taking the drink in his hand, he continues walking slowly in the room to find a place, before his dark eyes seeing a couple of people already sitting at the best table to be, if a shootout was to happen. Now ain't that a surprise.

Approaching the table, he scans the people sitting there and their unusual attire. Interesting. I was expectin' a hella lot more trolls and orks with metal arms. "Howdy, miss. Howdy, sir.", he says, tipping his hat and smiling. "Don' mean to intrude, but I can't help but notice ya table's got the best view. D'ya mind if I join ya?", he sends another good-natured smile. "An' ya got a promise for no borin' war stories."

Arnaud's? Yeah, I know it. Ashley picks up his shirt off the cot as he talks on the earphone. Pulling the t-shirt on, When? Yeah, I'll be there. He chuckles as he shrugs into his jacket. Arnaud's? Not quite what I expected. Been about what, six years...no...seven, since I've been in there. He runs his hand through his hair. Not what I'd normally wear, but it'll do. Grabbing his holster on the way out, he straps it to his back and knocks the light off as he leaves his cramped one-room apartment.

Walking down the street, Ashley stops about a block away, enjoying the night air. He smiles as he whispers to the air. The palm of his hand held up in front of him,

Conjuring TN1: 6d6 ⇒ (1, 4, 4, 4, 1, 4) = 18 4 Successes, though I only want three hours. Force 1 Watcher.
Drain Resist, 4L: 6d6 ⇒ (1, 3, 5, 1, 4, 6) = 20 3 Successes. No Drain.

Hello, he says to the small sprite that appears in his palm. Shimmering with blues, and reds, and purples, that fit in perfectly with the New Orleans night around them, the frail child of a spirit looks up at him expectantly. I have a task for you. Listener speaks gently as he explains to the spirit, I am about to attend a meeting at Arnaud's. I'd like you to observe the meeting and report to me what you saw afterward. If anyone other than myself performs magic, or astrally perceives, you should come and tell me immediately. Be discrete and quiet, but do not worry overly much if someone sees you. Do you understand? The mage smiles as the creature gives a meek, silent not. Good. Using the Bug Task.

Continuing on to the restaurant, he looks curiously. Now, where is Red? He whispers to the night air. The mage shifts his perceptions and looks across the street at the bar.

Quick question for Roy....are you already staying with Wraith and HepCat at his place?

HepCat spends a good part of the day getting ready for the meet later that night with "The Johnson". This being his first real action (not counting running shotgun a month or so ago with Wraith's friends), he wants to make a good impression.
After washing and cleaning up Lucille (The GMC Bulldog), he locks himself away in the bathroom to "Glam up!"
Using almost half a tube of pomade, HepCat has his hair in a beautiful pompadour, his mustache waxed and curled and his sideburns long and trimmed. He dresses in his best, tightest black jeans, a crisp white tee shirt (with his pipe and tobacco rolled in the left sleeve) and a black, synth-leather jacket in a style not normally seen outside a 1950's greaser flick. His old tanker's boots are shined up, with buckles polished and pants are rolled-up to just over the tops of his boots. A silver chain hangs down from the studded leather belt to attach to his wallet in his back pocket. He checks himself out in the mirror. His chrome arm is all slick and shiny, while his other arm is a full sleeve of 50's style tats. When all is ready, he heads out to give Wraith and Roy a ride into town.

"Come on Babies! We are off the line in 5. This is gonna be Boss!"

Once at the restaurant, he lets Roy (and Wraith, if she wants) off at the door while he goes and park the van. He sets the security and heads into the building. He walks into the bar and wave a greeting at all who are there already.
"What's buzzin, cuzzin? Is the Man here yet? This place is, like, far out!"

Been waiting all day for Hepcat to get his intro on, and it was well worth the wait! =)

While HepCat is performing what seems to be sacred ablutions for half the day in the bathroom, Wraith is nonchalant. She cleans her guns while reading the latest CybTRASH!! issue. Ooo! Mercurial will be in driving range! I should totes show face there! Oh, hey! An add for nanos. Someday, baby. Someday....'

In the five minutes before the meet she still slips in to the bathroom to put on some foundation. Casual is one thing, but too casual is another.
She pours herself into the form-fitting because she makes it look good and shrugs into the chic greatcoat that's been her friend since her first real run in Seattle. She doesn't take any obvious weapons, except the arm. Always the arm. 'Hm. It never even makes a whir. Or a clik. Almost enough not to miss the real...' The shades go on.

Roy gets out of the car but she stays in the 'Dog, to make sure that 'Cat doesn't back out, if anything at all.

As 'Cat makes the mistake of opening his mouth, she rolls her eyes so hard it's -audible-, but doesn't say anything. Every agro he tanks is less for her. Better that way.

"Pleased t' meetcha, Mr. Barth. Well, it'd be right improps not to take up such generous generosity. Burger an' boilermaker, if you would, Turkey an' Guinness."
The shot of whisky doesn't leave the bar and the empty tumbler is still spinning when she reverses a chair and sits down, smiling. By necessity of space her back is to the door, but she doesn't mind; such mundane concerns no longer bother her. That's baby stuff.
"Hoi chummers. So this the cool kids table, eh? Oh C'mon Roy! What if we -want- a borin' war story? I think these good people at least deserve the option, eh?"

The smile never leaves her face. She takes a drink.

Shiiit! Redline was fairly sure she had nothing appropriate to wear to a place like Arnaud's (really, it was a miracle if she had more then five outfits outside that perpetual 'to wash' pile!). It was something she *really* never thought she would have to worry about. Ahhh frak it. she sighed and glanced at her clock. Maybe there was enough time to buy something nice? But her expression quickly soured when she recalled the balance on her account - and all the bills that surely would come calling at the end of the month.

In the end she settled for a pink tank top (probably more fitting on a girl ten year old with a princess complex, but she never wore the dam thing so at least it was clean!), a pair of moderately not-broken jeans, a sturdy pair of boots that got to see shoe-shine for the first time in years, a dull red trenchcoat and a double dose of the 'be nice' pills. Upon inspecting her work via her mirror, Redline grinned in pain. Well, they are bloody not hiring me for my taste of fashion, I hope! Into the many pockets and holsters of the trenchcoat went gun and co, a feeble attempt to compensate for their unsatisfactory rate of fire and impact energy with sheer number of pieces. She didn't have the three set of hands nor the coordination to use them all anyhow, but it felt a bit better.

With the ritual of preparation complete, it was time to head to the meet. Listner's probably already waiting. And on that she was right, as usual. Walking down the sidewalk she quickly spotted him at their arranged spot.

"Hey there. Heard anythin'?"

She gave him a few moments to reply and fiddled with the cigarette in her hands. Shit. When did this happen ... Wasn't I supposed to stop? With an annoyed look she flicked the half-smoked thing into the gutter.

When they later entered the restaurant, the words 'open bar' resonated deeply with her. She greeted the barkeep with a polite nod and a long glance at all the bottles of liquor.

"Tequila sunrise..."

She decided. At the back of her head, the voice of her doc lectured her about mixing stuff. With a sigh she added.

"Make it a drivers, please."

To compensate, she nabs the menu and scans it for something she would actually recognize as she heads to the one table that is actually occupied. Most of the others seems all nice and dressed up. Bummer. Taking one of the free seats and hanging her heavy coat over the back, she greets the table with a grunt and a nod.

"So what's happenin'?"

Wraith turns as she hears an unfamiliar phrase. As the phrase-sayer sits, she calls out, still smiling, "'Make it drivers?' The frag's that mean? Or, did...did you just order a Tequila Runrise without tequila? Heh, you sure chummer? 'is'on Johnson's tab." She knocks back her ale and holds up the empty glass, turning to the barkeep. "Buy a lady a drink, good sir Barth?"

The mage frowned slightly in amusement as he looked across the street. Someone is paying quite a bit for this meeting. Clearing out Arnaud's and even putting up a ward. Interesting. His head tilted as he called out gently to his floating servant. Little one. Stay in this area. Look for anyone watching that building there...the one with the ward. Report to me when I come out. He smiles as he finishes his instructions. Thank you, little one. If anything or anyone bothers you, let me know.

Ashley smiles as Redline walks up and indicates the restaurant with a hitch of his thumb. All quiet so far. Some are already inside waiting. His chuckle is lighthearted as he continues, Your friends don't like to be late.

Running his hand through his hair, Listener follows Redline in. He pauses at the door to admire the decor on both the astral plane and normal. Bartholomew, a pleasure. Sizing the Troll up, he gives the man a charming smile and a nod of respect. Shortly afterwards his head tilts to the side as if he is surprised by something and a quizzical and amused look forms upon his face. Ashley stops himself from laughing aloud, but only barely, before speaking softly, My apologies little one. I didn't mean to surprise you. The magician turns back to the large Troll. Sorry, your friends are...playful.

French seventy-five, please. As Listener waits for his drink, he shifts his senses again and scans the room, pausing to examine each of the people at the table as well as the spirit in the corner. Red...you've got some mighty interesting friends. The drink takes some time to prepare, but the man doesn't seem to be in much of a rush.

Listener looks to be a man in his early twenties. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was still in college. Clean shaven, with his hair in a classic short cut, he looks like he walked out of the local soycaf shop. He's wearing a simple white t-shirt and some old jeans, along with a well worn brown jacket, almost certainly armored.

When his drink finally arrives he picks the flute up and nods to Redline, Mind introducing me?

Redline sipped her 'drink'. It seemed alot less appetizing without all the components. Maybe they serve a smoothie?

"Yah, I did..." Redline takes another sad sip of her 'drink'.

Will: 3d6 ⇒ (2, 5, 4) = 11

Ahh what the hell. If a drink gets me, I'm probably lucky!

"Screw it. I'll take the bus or somethin'." she rises and heads back to the barkeep for a real somethin'. Once it is ready, she takes a deep sip and suppresses a cough.

"Aight. For the pleasantries; I'm Redline. I deal with stuff like landscaping and - *cough* - creative entries. Listner's my friend here; he got a touch for the occult and I'll let him fill in the rest of that ball o' chaos."

As a fresh glass of brown fluid is delivered unto her, with a hearty "Prost!" Wraith clinks her glass against Redline's adult drink and shares a victorious sip. She turns to the mage. "Good t' meet'cha, Listner! I'm Wraith, so named because I'll haunt your dreeeeeams haha! The feller in th' ten-gallon hat is Old Roy, but don't call him that because he hates it, so just 'Roy' will do. And the Travolta wannabe is my dearest bestest buddy HipCat. Hep! I mean HepCat, though why it's the latter and not the former I'll never know."

To Listener's eyes Wraith is nothing special. Yeah, she's cute, but dressed like that she's probably just another Joy-girl that's along for the ride because she makes the rigger feel good. Hopefully she'll at least be good at talking to people so she's not totally useless.

She smiles and raises her drink in the direction of the silent Japanese Human-looking elf. "'Sup, Suki? If you had to kill us all how long would it take?" she asks playfully.

Odds are that she'll get a serious answer.

Haunt my dreams? The mage gives the young woman a long, appraising look, and a playful smirk, Yes...I'm sure you will.

He turns to those at the table and sets his flute down carefully in front of a seat. Other than the sip to test the drink at the bar, he's hardly touched it. So, Roy, Listener nods to the older man, HepCat, and, I'm guessing here...Suki. He says with a smirk and a nod to the well dressed Japanese woman with her back to the wall. And... He pauses as he reaches Cloudy and waits for an introduction.

So, Roy, Listener nods to the older man, HepCat, and, I'm guessing here...Suki. He says with a smirk and a nod to the well dressed Japanese woman with her back to the wall. And... He pauses as he reaches Cloudy and waits for an introduction.

He nods his head in Ashley's direction and introduces himself with one word, "Cloudy."

HepCat looks a little deflated at the mention of Travolta.

"Hey baby, chill on the Travolta. He was ...uggh....disco. Me, I am a follower of the only true music, Rockabilly! Hey Clyde, how 'bout a brew...unless you got some high octane back there somewhere!"

He sits back, feet up on the table and chair tilted at a jaunty angle watching the rest of the crew.

Barth looks at Listner, then shrugs. "Not my pets. Mr. Johnson..." He trails off, as if that was the full explanation. The drinks are made quickly and efficiently, he obviously has good experience fulfilling them.

Additional drinks are delivered as asked, either alcoholic or virgin. Food, once ordered, shows up promptly within 15 minutes of being ordered.

The runners end up spending about 30 minutes chatting, talking about whatever they want to talk about. Just as the food is about eaten, the back door opens, and a tall (about 6'4"!) elf comes in. She has dark red hair that's so dark it's almost brown, red tats on her face, and oddly orange eyes. Her complexion is pale to the extreme, and her lips are blood red. She wears a red suit that matches her lips and tattoos. A men's suit, a three piece one, that looks a century out of date, with a matching white shirt and tie. Her feet are encased in simple slippers that are black. She carries a briefcase in one hand, one of those old leather ones, also in a red leather that matches her suit.

"Ah, greetings! Sorry for the delay, things always get complicated when you have a deadline. Forces of chaos, obviously." She beams a smile at the group. "I hope you didn't mind waiting. Bartholomew! I expect you were polite? I know you and your rude manners, you didn't insult our guests did you?"

The troll, who's spoken all of two dozen words since the group arrived, raises one eyebrow. "I assure you, Mr. Johnson, I was the sole of politeness."

The woman shakes her head. "Of course you were. Now..." And she hops up on the bar, crossing her ankles. The briefcase is put on the bar next to her and opened. Out of it she pulls a folder. "Bartholomew! Do hand out the... what are they called again?" She hands the folder to him.

"Pieces of paper?"

The woman looks thoughtful. "No, not that one, the other one..."

"A bloody nuisance?"

She taps her lip with a fingernail. "True, but not the one I was looking for..."

"Non-disclosure agreements?"

She brightens. "That's it! Non-disclosure agreements."

The troll nods, opening the folder. "The pen, ma'am?"

The elf blinks. "Oh, yes, of course..." She reaches into her suit coat and pulls out a very ornate antique pen. She hands it to the troll, who puts it in his suit breast pocket while he delivers papers to each individual runner. He has to go back and forth a bit to ensure each runner receives the correct bit of paper.

Once the papers are handed out, Barth pulls the ornate pen out of his pocket and hands it to Roy. "Please sign with this pen. Thank you." He says and returns behind the bar.

As the woman enters Ashley leans back in his seat casually and smiles. Interesting, he whispers. His perception shifts as he examines the woman. With a nod of respect he satisfies his curiosity. Almost unconsciously he finds himself smoothing out his shirt. When he notices he stops himself with a quiet chuckle.

Listener watches the exchange between the troll and elf with amusement. When Bartholomew retrieves the pen from his pocket, Listener's senses shift again. Interesting pen. Let's see what we might have here...

Listener's smile gives way to outrage and he stand abruptly, staring down the small creature. Don't. You. Dare. He shifts his perception back.

Roy, Ashley begins, his voice as cold as ice. Do not touch that pen. Not before she tells you exactly what it does. The mage straightens his jacket and he turns his gaze towards the woman. Are you insane? I don't mind signing this agreement, nor do I think any of these people would mind. But, did you not think this was worth disclosing? You don't subject people to such things without their knowledge. His tone grows angrier as he speaks. I don't really mind that you're hiding what you are. I do mind that you're doing it as if I'm a complete moron. And then you have your pets set to attack anyone that catches you in your little trick? What game are you playing at here? What did you think would happen?

He turns to the group, This woman, is attempting to bind you with magic. I assume this is why you brought me along. My guess is that she doesn't mean to be as ridiculously insulting as she's being, but I'll leave that up to you all. I'm just going to wait over here and try to stop being angry before I do something...irrational.

Well, it's a good thing they brought me along. I think had they found out another way, one of these mundanes would have done something...deadly. I certainly hope this directs their annoyance at me rather than her. This stunt could have blown the whole job and I *need* this.

Warith stuffs another handful of complimentary fries into her mouth. "Well, c'mon Roy. Lemme have that pen so I can sign this thing and start talking 'bout the part where we get paid."

'Heh. Grue. That's awesomesauce.'

The woman blinks, and looks at Barth. "My pets?"

The troll says blandly. "The pests."

The woman tilts her head. "Oh, don't mind them. They're overprotective." Then she looks at the rest of the group. "Anyone else here a newbie? I assume you've all agreed to magically enforced contracts before? My research indicated you were, with a couple of exceptions..." She glances from Listner to Roy. "...experienced runners." She turns to Listner, and the whimsy from before is gone. "If you wish to work in this business, you had best, Mister St. George, learn to follow the lead of those with more experience. The shadows are not the corporate courts. Nobody takes you to court for breaking a contract. You are simply erased, be it by a..." She trails off... "Bartholomew! The big thing, the noisy one..."

"A panzer LAV?"

"No no, the other noisy one..."

"A drunken troll?"

"Close! The thing Cinique carried..."

"A Vulcan minigun."

"Yes! A Vulcan Minigun. Or by a spell, or a spirit. The more binding the contract, the more money it is worth." She comments, then turns away from Listner. "Now, anyone who doesn't wish to sign, feel free to leave immediately." There's a much harder edge in her voice now.

She seems pleased when Wraithe indicates she wants to sign.

The Japanese woman rises, leaving her ice-water-with-lemon (which is all she had, albeit with one refill) and steps calmly over to the coat rack. She takes care pulling the long Mortimer coat on, then pauses to regard the excessively tardy, excessively forgetful, and excessively offensive female elf. "I have considerable experience. I have never once signed a magically binding contract, and I have never once been even offered one that insults my professional integrity and discretion by binding me in the simple, understood agreement to not discuss a meet, because I am a professional. And I am quite pleased to see you don't know who I actually am."

She glances back at the pen, at 'Listener', then at the others. "If you sign, understand that you will die; the piece of paper in front of you, should it bear accurate information, is a magical cortex bomb, prepared to go off when they" - and here she waves at the elf and the troll - "want it to. If you do sign, you are a fool, and the world is better off without you in the shadows."

She nods courteously to the wannabe-Johnson, and walks out - no matter what.

Listener looks much less angry and, in fact, breaks out into a laugh. It is full and hearty. I haven't done this before? Look, lady, you should have moved on without the insults. That probably would have worked a little bit better. I think you really misjudged the situation. Maybe take a few minutes, have a drink, relax, then try again. This isn't working out for you. He continues to laugh and seems to have trouble stopping. Eventually he composes himself and continues. What world do you live in where it's common to enforce contracts with magic? Look, I went to college to study magic. There were a lot of people there who were awakened. A lot. But out in the real world? We're one in a hundred. Do you have any idea how many of those could enforce a contract with magic? Less than a percent. Do you know how many could craft the quality and amount of spirits in this room? Less than that. Do you know how many can mask their signatures as you, or whoever you work for, has done? Even less than that. I'd put the odds as a dozen people in the world, none known of publically. So, no, I'm not the one that needs to rethink my position here.

He steps back to the table and sits down, Now, I'm going to finish this drink. You are going to say something that makes us want to stay. Preferably something without insults or threats. Not because I don't think you can follow through on your threats, but because, in my experience, people like those gathered here respond really poorly to them.

Thank god this drink is strong. This is ugly, but hopefully salvageable. I just need to keep myself from shaking long enough to help even this out.

Wraith takes a sip of her Guinness to wash down the fries. It was impolite to talk with a mouth full. "Hi there! 'Scuse me, sorry. Heh, ya, I don't know where you and the fragging china doll get your info, but in the Big Leagues, as in, a little town just a bit aways called -Seattle-, Ms. Johnson has it right. Wait, I'm sorry, is it Ms. Or Mrs? I hate that.

Frankly, if I blew a night just to turn down a job didn't pay, -I'd- wanna not talk about it too."

She puts more ketchup on her hamburger.

The woman shrugs as Suki walks out. "My understanding is most Mr. Johnsons prefer to simply take a few drops of blood. I prefer a more civilized and historical way, signing a contract. The contract is non negotiable. Sign it or don't. Your companion chose to leave. You may do the same, or you may stay." She shrugs, looking not at all discomforted that Suki left. "I would think that signing a contract is much more up front than your Mr. Johnson stealing hair or paying to have your blood stolen without your knowledge. Either way, I have things to do. Either you are in or out. It is your decision. As to 'a magical cortex bomb that goes off whenever I want it to'. I will give you back your insult. That would be simply taking your blood or hair, with or without your knowledge. One reason I prefer a contract is that it is a contract. It has rules to enforce. I could no more make the contract affect you without your breaking it than I could move the moon with a musket..."

She turns to Wraithe. "I prefer Mr. Johnson, at least until we have a working relationship, if you don't mind. Thank you."

Listener chuckles as he carefully puts down his drink. Look, Wraith is it? I get it. You unzipped, pulled it out, and laid it on the table. You're trying to establish that you're an experienced runner and I'm the new guy. But, this is what you brought me for. He leans back casually, I'm sure that some amateur with magic-y symbols copied off some cheap trid told you that they were having you sign a magical contract. But I can damn near guarantee that they were feeding you a pile of drek.

He sighs, though he doesn't seem angry or even frustrated, just...accepting. Look, I get it. Magic is weird to mundanes. The trids make it seem like it can do anything and it's all over the place. So any random guy with a cool outfit and some bone necklace can come along and lie to you. I get it. But that's why you bring someone like me along. There, now we're both unzipped and on the table. Measuring sticks are out and it turns out you are more experienced with running than I am, and I am more experienced with magic. You can take my advice or not, but if you don't trust me now on this, there's no sense in working with me.

As to this contract, you might want to read it again before signing even if you're hell bent on it. So, here's what magic can do. It can compel you to tell someone what we talked about here today. And then you'll knowingly have done so. And/or is an exclusive construct, not an inclusive one. And that's just magical methods, not to mention the myriad of mundane ways to make you talk about what's about to happen here. So, if you want to sign that contract, you go right ahead. You've been warned. He takes another sip of his drink and waits.

When the woman speaks about taking blood Ashley almost splurts his drink all over the table. Are you people insane? Who would ever do that? What kind of idiots do you hire? Do they ever have magical advisors? Look, I get being discrete, seriously, I do. And you're right, I'm new to this. But apparently what you meant by shadowrunner was 'unprofessional dirtbag that doesn't know the first thing about magic'. So, all kidding aside, you ain't helping your case here. I'm new, I'm not an idiot.

Ok, that's a bad on my part, that should read AND not AND/OR in the contract. Typo on the GM's part

HepCat lets his chair fall forward with a bang.

"Well now, I am new to all this as well, but is it not normal for the Johnson to protect his...errr...her investment? Just wondering, or is that part of the trid crap you were talking about. Oh, and I would be careful who you call a dirtbag Clyde."

"It is not my experience that Mr. Johnson is wasteful of her employees..." Barth begins, showing some signs of life for the first time.

Almost immediately, Mr. Johnson raises her hand. "Silence Bartholomew, it is their decision to make."

The woman sighs. "Those who do not wish to sign the contract may leave, and those who do, may stay. Those who stay can listen to the proposal, and then recommend to those who do not wish to sign it whether they should change their mind afterwards. They may not discuss what was discussed, but they may make a recommendation, for those who are concerned signing it."

Cloudy watches the events unfold in front of him watching slightly amused. As he considers Shugyosha's actions trying to understand her motives he thinks, Either she's gonk or brilliant. Maybe it's a tactic to drive up the price.

"I have no problem keeping my mouth shut," he says as he picks up the pen and signs the document. Plus I need the creds and can't afford to miss out on a big payday. "You chucks can follow the dandelion eater if you want but I'm gonna listen what Mr. Johnson has to say."

Ain't that just great. Everyone's complaining about a contract now., Roy thinks, behind an impenetrable gaze. Indeed, ever since the elf walked in the bar he's been sitting and watching, merely nodding at the troll handing over the pen and sheet.

He clears his throat, pulling his hat higher and picks up the contract. He takes out a pair of reading glasses from his coat pocket and puts them on. As far as NDA's go, it's reasonable. I don't really know if I should be afraid of grues or not, though.

He flips the sheet on the other side, seeing nothing. If something's invisible, it doesn't count in any contract, and I'm bettin' she knows it.

At the last sentence from Cloudy, he sighs internally. Every goddarn time...

He clears his throat again, signalling others to quiet down. "Now, I'm just an old cattle rancher, an' don't real know two bits 'bout this shadowrunnin' business, and I'm the first one to admit it.", he says slowly. "Though my understandin' was, it ain't the greatest idea to jump on our throats an' show 'bout our colourful vocabularies.", his voice slightly amused, as he shakes his head at Ashley and Wraith. "An', as the cheerful talk o' Mr. St. George and our Wraith over here underlined by stickin' their Johnsons out in front o' the other Johnson, is that if we gon' do a job, we need t'work together, 'cause noone's Johnson's big enough to do all the job themselves. Not even Long Dick Johnson, and he had a f+!#ing long Johnson. Thus, the name.", he says, staring down everyone at the table.

He takes another sip. Kids these days. The elf and the troll ain't better, though. Least the Asian kid stood by her principles. Probably woulda liked workin' with her. "Way I see things, the problem is that the contract's all magical an' whatnot. I ain't never broke my word, and I'm not plannin' to." It may have happened, regarding a tall elven woman and a contract. Oh, the irony., he says, looking at Mr. Johnson. "Therefore, if all that thing there's for is precaution, I don' see no problem with that. After all, if ya ain't gonna break the contract, it don' real matter what happens if you do."

He pulls a metal cigarette case from his coat, takes a cigarette, puts the case and flicks open a lighter, all within roughly half a second. "D' ya mind, kid?", he nods at the cigarette, looking at Bartholomew.

"An', if there are... complications with the contract, comin' from that there shifty lookin' pencil, I'd very much like to know 'bout them. I'm sure Mr. St. George can lend his expertise in the matter, but I'm only needin' the basics. I'm way too old to learn magic now.", he gestures with the cigarette. "'Ya save us library time an' we save ya the time t'look for another crew straight away. ", he says, extending his hand. "Deal?" He then turns to the table. "An' once we get an' explanation, we decide if we want to take part in this particular endeavour. Nice an' rational." He drinks the last drops in his glass and passes it to Bartholomew. "Could ya bring me another, please, son? All those hot young passions 'round me make me thirsty."

Mr. Johnson looks at Roy, a small twinkle in her eye. "Well, since it's come up. The pen has been in my family for a very long time. It will not write for anyone that is not writing in good faith. Nor will it write on a contract that isn't valid. It does bind your aura to the contract, same as if you gave a hair sample, or a drop of blood. There are valid reasons for the contract, which unfortunately, I can't reveal until it's signed. This is sort of a common thing in my line of work unfortunately." She sighs.

Wraith's eyes go wide as if she's heard something shocking. Cautiously her hand disappears below the table. The hand comes back up and the worry drains from her face, replaced with the omnipresent smile. "Why do people keep thinking that I got sumpin' to unzip an' get measured? Seems t' me that's two Johnsons we got wrong today."

She listens patiently as Roy...is trying to help? I guess? But he still hasn't passed the pen on, so she just keeps waiting. "Sir Barth, my good man. This burger is -excellent-! One might almost believe that it had seen real beef in it's lifetime. Would it be possible to get another?"

I think I could use another drink, Cloudy concludes as he finishes his Mint Julep.

Ashley frowns and shrugs, Lady, I offered you a chance. Three of them, in fact. And you've decided to double down each time. His shrugs is almost...sympathetic. I've given my advice on the matter. Anyone willing to catch someone in a magical contract without telling them ahead of time isn't to be trusted. My advice? Walk away until this Johnson has time to rethink their plan and methods. Maybe they'll be back, maybe they won't, but whatever this is can't be worth your life.

He leans back again, Now, I'm going to finish this drink. Then I'm going to stand up and cast sterilize. And then I'm going to leave. I'm telling you this so you know, when my spell is countered, I'm going to consider it a threat.

The magician finishes off the last of his drink and stands. He straightens his jacket, looks around calmly, then waves his hand almost as if blessing what remains of the meal on the table.

Casting Sterilize. Using three spell pool dice on casting and three on drain.

Sterilize F3, TN4: 9d6 ⇒ (5, 5, 5, 5, 1, 1, 6, 6, 2) = 36 6 Successes. Effect maxed out at +6 to use material.
Drain, TN2 M: 9d6 ⇒ (6, 6, 3, 3, 4, 4, 6, 1, 4) = 37 8 Successses. No Drain.

He'll wait briefly outside for Red or anyone else if they're coming, but then heads out for the evening.

The standard for having to show up physically for any meet was what happened with the prep-work. In his case, that was nothing fancy since he had learned about the response the bigger messes caused. So, in this case, being late for a meet was bad, but he'd rather have his exits planned, rather than having to come up with something on the fly and be woefully under-prepared.

In this modern age of technology, he stood out. There was no datajack on his temple that could be seen, though his coffee-colored skin could blend in with the everyday folk of N.O. His head was shaved, the grey, black, and gold colors of the New Orleans Tombstones, as well as a bit of gris-gris pinned to the newly worn cap on the side of its brim. Moderately built, he wore a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, another slight oddity in this age of technological improvement.

He was dressed casually, probably another point against him, but at this point, he had seen a couple people leave, a destructable relay set up in the system to bring the feed to his Pocket Secretary. As he pulled the door open, he looked around, spotting the group at the table and giving a nod to the Troll behind the bar.

As an accent, there was a pin that looked like an optical chip adjacent to the gris-gris merchandise on his hat.

"My sincere apologies for my tardiness", he said with a quiet and precise accent. "May I join you?" His eyes looked at the others at the table, singling out who was the Johnson, and taking off his cap with a bit of a restrained bow to her.
_______________________________
The only setup that he would have done was to deck into the hotel's SAN, and set up a trigger to squelch any initial alarm, then crash the system and kill the lights.
Decking: 7d6 ⇒ (1, 2, 6, 3, 3, 1, 4) = 20

The woman watches Listner go, and Jairden come in. "Yes, of course. Well, a mage for a decker."

Jairden was unable to set up a trigger. He barely got out without setting off a trigger, there were two deckers already in the system running watch on it, he hadn't expected that.

The large troll picks up the folder, and retrieves a paper from it, handing it to Jairden. See spoiler above

Once he does that, he returns to the bar, and places Wraith's order for a new burger.

Indicate if you're signing the NDA now that Suki and Listner have left, or you're refusing to sign. Either is fine to the GM

Wraith signs, goes back to working on the prodigious amount of fries that came with it.

HepCat takes the pen next and signs his paper, then hands it off to Cloudy.

"Here you go, Daddy-O"

Cloudy signs without reservation.

Roy furrows his thick gray eyebrows. He clears his throat and grabs the pen, twirling it around his fingers. Well, it ain't like you got a choice, old man. It's this or become the crazy swamp man. And it ain't like you gotta take the job., he thinks, staring at the NDA. "Well, let's call it an investment of trust.", he says, crafting his elaborate signature. "Now, if tomorrow I wake up as a newt, I ain't to be held responsible 'bout the carnage."

He passes the pen to the newcomer. "Ball's in your park now, kid."

------

As soon as all willing people have signed the contract, he leans back. "Well, Mr. Johnson, I ain't gettin' younger.", he says with a smile.

Wraith finds she has to sign it with her flesh hand, as the cyber hand doesn't seem to be able to make the pen work, as nothing transfers to paper while holding it, resulting in a less than smooth signature.

As each person signs their paper, they notice the ink is red, but clearly visible.

Waiting for RedLine and Jairdan

With a pained glance at the closing door Redline motions for the pen. She wasn't sure if it was the drink, the evening or this whole thing that was making her nauseous, but *this* wasn't what she was expecting when she left home. But, bills to pay, money to gain ... Once the pen came around she carefully signed the contract with a small R.

Nice colour at least.

The paper was a curious thing, and he looked at it as impassively as he could, but he did look up at the Johnson and the troll at the bar. Rather than speak, he did gain a rather set look to his face before marking an X on the contract grimly.

Saying nothing, he waited for her to begin.

"Well, excellent. I had hoped to have both a magic user and a matrix runner, but it appears that was not meant to be. Well, far be it from me to argue against Fate."

The Troll coughs unexpectedly and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his lips.

Giving the troll a dour look, the redhead continues. "Don't mind Bartholomew, he's getting over a cold. Now then, my apologies for the 'cloak and dagger' with the contract. It is as much for your benefit as it is mine. I have enemies that would try to get information from you if they knew you met with me. Requiring you to never discuss it means they are less likely to hear about it, and less likely to try to do something nasty to you to hear what we discussed." She smiles. "Now, I am about to... what is that saying Bartholomew?"

"Make them an offer they can't refuse?"

"No no, they are completely able to refuse!"

"Hold onto their hats, it's going to be a bumpy ride?" Barth guesses.

The woman purses her lips. "Oddly appropriate, but no... The one they use on those late night trid commercials..."

"Make them a once in a life time limited time offer?"

"YES!" She beams at the Troll. To be continued