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

Game Master mdt

Born in Biloxi Mississippi to a lower class family, Delmar had a dream. That dream was to drive...anything. His love of vehicles was vast and even as a child he would spend hours with his father and uncle out in the garage stripping down their highly modified (and highly illegal) car. The vehicle, you see, was used to run moonshine throughout the southern coast, from Florida to Texas.
Growing up Delmar had a spotty education, preferring to spend his time at the local garage doing odd jobs for the mechanics. Pretty soon he was pulling engines and modifying just about anything that could be altered. On his 16th birthday, his father got him a beat up old Ford Americar. In 2 months, the boy had stripped the thing down, rebuilt the engine and was racing it on the local tracks...and winning. The next two years were spent on the rural circuit where he made a name for himself as a competent driver. It was at one of these local races that he met Sergeant T.J. Dennison, a recruited for the CAS mechanized cavalry. Seeing the boy had skill and spirit, he made him an offer. Come join the CAS military and learn how to "really" drive a vehicle. Being a rigger himself, Sergeant Dennison explained it all to Delmar, who could not wait to lern how to "jack-in" to a vehicle.
After making plans with his cousin Lukas for when his term of duty was complete, and against the wishes of his Father (his mother had died several years before), he hopped onto the bus and was sent to basic training, then after passing all his aptitude tests (something the Sarge forgot to tell him about) he underwent the months long surgeries to implant the tech into his head and body to make him a rigger.
For 6 long years he repaid his country for the "honour" of owning the hardware in his body. He pushed panzers on the texan border (and over), as well as learning how to control drones. After his six years, he bid the army a fond farewell and headed home, only to have his plans dashed and quickly finding himself on the run from the law. He found himself a new name and scrounged work wherever he could find it, until, down to his last few grand, he finds himself in New Orleans, hoping to score a new gig.

He had to get away. Joining the CAS army seemed to be the easiest way to get out. Maybe the only way. Most thought he'd get angrier while in the service. Turned out it was just what he needed to figure out who he was. He got his piece and quiet, and solitude, and learned that when it came down to it, it didn't matter that he was an Ork. Metahumans are all the same when the fighting starts.

Like most soldiers Jon didn't get to choose his job. Initially he trained to be a water treatment specialist. Shortly after arriving at his first assignment he got sent off to air assault training. Gotta love the army, bureaucracy at its finest. Graduating with excellent marks and already having high qualifying scores in marksmanship, Jon's command put him in for immediate reassignment to combat arms. He hadn't expected to even see combat and all of a sudden he found himself in a light recon unit working in Texas and South America.

Ten years later he was ready to go home. Maybe it was his injuries, maybe he was just tired of working for the government. Whatever it was, he'd gotten what he needed out of the military and it was time to move on. His family, being infuriatingly relaxed, welcomed him back easily. This time Jon wasn't upset or angry. He just smiled and knew they were who they were. But he still didn't feel like he fit in with them and decided to step out on his own. He headed to NOLA first, looking for a job. Turns out, the army didn't prepare him for a real job. He was qualified for security and...well, that was about it. And finding a security job in Nawlins as an Ork was pretty much impossible. Tuskers weren't welcome in the nice places in town. They hurt business, especially tourism. And in NOLa, tourism is life. Sure, he could get a security job on the crappier parts of town, but then, why bother? Jon wasn't afraid of working outside the law and there are plenty of jobs for people like that.

Personality: Jon Valentine is a man in a constant quest to find out who he is. He tries new things, and never shies away from a challenge. He doesn't care what other people think about him or what he does. He does, however, find it amusing that people are always so interested. The fact that he has a large network of relatives out there ready to catch him if he falls actually annoys him. He's learned to live with it, but because he wants to define himself alone, he dislikes that he has an easy way out. He wants to be defined by what he's overcome, not what he lucked in to by virtue of birth or condition.

Why he's a Runner: Simply put, the challenge. He tells others it's because he needs a job. And he's not *really* lying. He's self-aware enough to know that's not the real reason. He wants to test himself. And this is the best way to do that. He does find it odd that he doesn't want help from his family, but has no issue with working with a team of runners. He's interested in figuring out what this means about himself.

Suki, you see, is a very, very human-looking elf.

Barely a week after Riian's birth, a four-man hit team came after mother and daughter. The resulting gunfight - for the person for which Suki had been the bodyguard had been Hitomi Shiawase, granddaughter of the CEO and member of the Shiawase family - concluded witht he death of all the gunmen, but Suki's mother and sister were killed as well. The violence brought corporate security, but unfortunately when one of them recognized one of the hit squad as being a member of the corporate high-threat response team, the two drew - and Suki was forced to kill them as well to protect herself and her child. Snatching up what little she could, she called the young girl and apologized to her, explained what had happened, and fled the compound in a running gun-battle before she could shake her pursuers and vanish into the Tokyo underground.

Ever since, though she's been on the run from Shiawase - or rather, from her highly-offended ex, who thought she was a proper human, but he's become an executive - she has considered herself a warrior on pilgramage, and sought to find a master worth serving. She has, in fact, discovered that she has a talent for more than just bodyguarding, but for ... agent work. And so she stays in the job, keeping a few steps ahead of her ex, trying to figure out a way to shake him forever.

His thoughts goes back to his first job, I guess it boils down to being in the wrong place at the right time or the right place at the wrong time. But what else is a SINless supposed to do, sell trinkets to tourists. Been there and I have no desire to go back. He places his arms behind his head as he continues this line of thought, what else am I qualified to do that is gonna pay the bills, this is what I’m good at.

Stop lying to yourself, he cautions himself. You do it because you love it, love the adrenaline rush, love the chance to be the best, he concludes with a smile as opens the bottle next to the bed and begins to drink himself to sleep.

Crispin's eyes pop open, his head still pounding, but he sighs with relief as he realizes he is in his bed, alive in one of his cramped little safe houses. He concludes, it’s just that dream again. He lays in his bed breathing erratically with sweat pouring off his body, the sour odor of his unwashed body mixes with the smell of alcohol and his breath creating something noxious. Crispin shakes his head as he begins to work his jaw, making sure his mouth isn’t sewn shut. No I’m still alive, he decides as the pounding in his head grows louder and the sound of Zydeco music drifts up from the bar below, he thinks it’s Woman by Slippery Sneakers. He listens to the music for a second as he contemplates the ominous dream and consoles himself with one of the sayings of his mother’s people, we come to earth not to live but to sleep and dream.

It takes him a second to realize that it isn’t just his skull that is pounding but his phone is buzzing as well. He reaches for the phone and looks at the caller ID and thinks, Angie, could be trouble. He hesitates for a second and answers saying in French Creole, “Bonjou.” He listens to the voice at the other end asking, “Parlé? He nods his head and checks his watch before replying, “Wa pli tar.”

Crispin hangs up the phone while he untangles himself from his sheets. He runs his fingers through his thick hair as he reaches with his other hand for the mostly empty bottle next to his bed. Greedily he brings the bottle to his lips and finishes off the contents. He tosses the bottle aside and carefully gets up, the bed groans in relief as his weight is lifted. Sluggishly he makes his way over to the bathroom sink and turns on the faucet. As he splashes water on his face he looks up and catches his reflection in the small mirror that sits above the sink.

He smiles at his likeness, it was a look that would make a mother hide her cubs, a banker clutch his credsticks a little tighter, or a lawyer to stutter. He mused that while he was not yet 30 years old the reflection looking back at him seemed older.

Weary looking, he tells himself.

As Crispin continues looking at his reflection he noticed his eyes and thinks, they are same color of the sky right before a storm, at least when they’re not blood shot. But it is more than their color that draws Crispin’s attention, his gaze appears knowing and penetrating. His eyes are set in a well-proportioned and espresso colored face which is framed by slicked dark flowing hair, the color of a raven’s wing, with a small soul patch under his lower lip and long sideburns that extend to his jaw.

Crispin is startled from his reverie by the unrelenting ringing of his phone. He admonishes himself, stop admiring yourself there is business to attend to. He shakes his head thinking, probably trouble.

Tap, Tap, Tap, the raven bangs on the side of the wooden pallets that serve as the framework for the hovel Crispin called home during his childhood in the slums of the Ninth Ward of the Crescent City. Crispin is raised by his mother and her people in the urban squalor of the inner city, SINless. They are descendants of the once proud Choctaw Indian Nation now just known as Urban Indians barely surviving on the detritus of society. Crispin is Choctaw on his mother’s side while his father considered himself pure Louisiana Creole, a mixture of French, Spanish, and African. It was in this environment Crispin was raised under the Indian name Two Birds where he sold trinkets in a picturesque costume of a bygone era to tourists.

Crispin also spent a lot of time under his Grandfathers tutelage. His grandfather, Running Wolf, was a tribal shaman who had a deep faith in supernatural forces linking humans and other living creatures. He believed in the importance of maintaining harmony with nature, fellowmen, and the supernatural world. It was under his grandfather’s guidance that Crispin discovered he was one of the awakened and could manifest control over his body. His grandfather called it the power of the natural spirits while the white man called it the somatic way.

When Crispin was twelve his mother’s body wasted away and her spirit went to dwell with their ancestors. This resulted in Crispin’ grandfather telling him he must go live with his father for up until now Crispin had only been living in one world, to become a man he must live in two worlds and be Two Birds. It was under these circumstances that Crispin was thrust upon a man he hardly knew.

His father was a musician, who went by the stage name Swamp-Thing, with some talent and an even bigger drug problem. Over the next several years Crispin lived with his father and they eventually became quite close. As a result he learned to love the music and food that New Orleans is famous for. Because of his father’s addiction they never had much money, so to help out Crispin became a roadie for his father’s band. Shortly after taking this job Crispin’s life changed forever. Late one night, after a show, as they were making their way out the back door of the club, his father was confronted by three gangers that he owed money to. They began to beat his father for what was owed and Crispin rushed in and quickly dispatched the gangers. As he helped his father to his feet Crispin was approached by the bouncer of the club who had watched the encounter.

The bouncer told him he was a natural and offered him a job. At first these were small time capers, B&E, Currier runs, and body guarding but eventually his reputation helped him become a full-time runner.

The images before him disperses as he hears the shrill alarm of a raven’s cry and Crispin opens his eyes. Crispin stands and begins to rub the numbness out of his legs. He quickly gets dressed in his club clothes, puts on his shades, and guzzles down a beer before he leaves for his meeting with Angie

Crispin smiles as he makes his way through the smoke filled club and observes several of the dancers gyrating with customers trying to earn some Nuyen. He approaches the bar and is recognized by the bartender who says, “She’s waiting for you. Room 3,” the bartender directs as he places a frost coated sterling silver tumbler in front of Crispin. Crispin picks up his drink and heads to room3 as he sips his Mint Julep and sighs, perfect. Crispin enters the room and goes from relaxed to alert in a fraction of a second as his senses determine someone else is in the room with Angie. I don’t recognize the scent, he thinks as he enters the room.

Crispin surprised to see an impeccably dressed troll with several gold chains dangling from his neck sitting across from Angie. Crispin turns toward the troll and nods his head as he says in his best French, “Bonsoir.”

The troll grunts, “Me no hobla da lingo.”

Angie interjects and calls Crispin by his runner name, “Raven, glad you could make it. Let me introduce you to Thrash.” She continues with a smile, “Thrash is looking to hire a runner and I thought you would be perfect for the job.’

Thrash hurriedly interrupts, “Me ‘eard ye been hoodin”

Crispin answers nonchalantly, “don’t believe everything you hear.” As he cautions himself, Careful, this could be trouble.

“Me ‘eard ye muck’d up ya last run big time” The troll adds with a scowl.

“Pay him no mind,” Angie interjects and motions towards the Troll, “you promised to be nice.”

The troll ignores the Angie, “ ‘Me ‘eard all about ya, ‘opeless gambler, womanizer, and drunkard. It looks like ya arrogance finally did ya in da udder night.”

”You forgot slothful and I have a tendency to talk with my mouthful. Also, technically, I’ am more of a philanderer than a womanizer,” he grins at the troll.

“And smartass,” the troll retorts.

True, True, Crispin chuckles. And continues, “Now friend, I’ll be the first to admit that there is a fine line between arrogance and self-confidence and that sometimes I cross that line. But people don’t hire me for my personality.”

“And full of crap,” adds the troll. “I ‘eard what happened to Nad. He were a friend o’ mine.”

“Well, that was unfortunate business. He tried to betray me and take the score for himself, Crispin thinks as he prepares for the worst. "Unlucky for him, but a lucky turn for me. And let’s be honest friend, Nad will handle the rigors of Corp lock-up much better than I would. I’m afraid I'd be a bit too popular with the inmates, so to speak. Moreover, the guards would probably lose their meager paychecks gambling with me and start beating their wives. So as you can see the way it worked out is better for everyone," Crispin concludes and begins to hum an upbeat tune from the last century.

Angie stands up and faces the troll as she chimes in, “Now most people would conclude that Raven is a cad and they may very well be right. However, if they paid attention they would find that there is more to him lurking below the surface. Understandably, he might be the first person you would think of if you wanted to go out carousing. Nevertheless, he would be the first person to buy you a drink the next morning to help you get over the hangover.” She continues as she glares at the Troll, “He is a professional that gets the mission done with low casualties. So if you’re looking to hire someone get on with it.” She pauses for a second and adds, “Oh, and most importantly for you, he has a tendency to hum when he is angry.”

Alanna woke up, and stared down the barrel of his predator.

Running from the house, the blood from her freshly broken nose flowing freely, it dawn on Alanna that her thirteenth birthday could've gone better. The plan, hatched with the genius of the teenaged, involved her working for Old Man Harper, getting enough Nuyen for her mom to take her dad out and get him good and pre-drunk enough for the party to go flawlessly.

Not enough. Not enough Nuyen.

As soon as they got to the bar, he just ordered better stuff and burned through the cred, getting mad that he wasn't wasted yet. He returned home and got mad that people were in his house, having fun without him. Just started throwing punches.

"Hey, kid, keep it down."

"Whaaaha?" she stammered, her tears surrendering to her growing confusion. She'd walked many blocks, and saw she was near an alley she ought not be near.

"Keep it down," he repeated, 'he' being a devastatingly handsome older boy of 15 years. He had sea-blue eyes and harvest-wheat hair. "You can cry up a storm later but right now--" his words were cut off as an angry dwarf appeared out of nowhere.

"HEY!" yelled the dwarf. "There you are! Where is it? She got it? Your partner got it? Give it here!" he thundered, stalking toward her.

Without thinking she brought up her taser ('no, srsly, don't leave home without it') and fired. At this range she couldn't miss. The dwarf spasmed twice, wet his pants, and dropped.

As if on cue a pretty elfin girl ran up to them, stopped at the boy. "Oh, hey, I got the stuff! Ooooo, looks like you took care of him good already. Wizard!"

"Actually, Spirit," said the beautiful boy, "our...new friend here did the honors. Good job, kid. I guess that means you get a share. We're gonna go fence it, if you wanna come along we can pay you now."

Alanna looked at them, eyes wide in pure, unadulterated wonder. She rubbed her eyes, smearing her running mascara even more, and, hypnotically, said an extremely witty, "Yeah."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Derrick."

"No, Alanna, you can't come," Derrick said, -again-. "You're just...you're slower than Spirit, you're not as accurate as RockOn, and you're noisier than Shadow. The run calls for 5, and unless you've been hiding a decade of Rigger talent under your skirt, you can't come."

She didn't have anything to say. She'd worked hard, gotten better, got some gear, ran with some third-tier gangs, but she wasn't good enough for his crew.

After he left, she made a phone call.

Next time she'll be better.

Derrick gave a nice speech. Spirit deserved it. She was a nice person. The pretty elven girl had become a competent runner.

As he passed Alanna all he said was, "You were too slow." The look in his eyes, the hurt...she couldn't bear it. Okay, he had loved Spirit. Okay, she hated her for that. But she didn't deserve to bite it. Especially not like that.

Everyone else had got out. And the run had paid well.

She made a call. She'd -be- better.

"Alright team! This is the Big One" Derrick announced proudly to the crowded room. He took a breath and his eyes accidentaly laid a heartbeat too long on her chrome. He still wasn't used to the augs. Not on the streets, not in bed.

"All the intel says the security is gonna be diverted, and all we have to do is break in, grab one thing, and get gone. Someone else is doing the heavy lifting, we just gotta be the net. I know all of you are thinking that I'm bringing on too many hands for so simple a grab, and are worried about the payday. But trust me on this one, it ain't gonna matter!"

Frag he was happy.

"Hey, Derrick," called RockOn, "What exactly are we 'just grabbing'? Is it heavy?"

"Absolutely not," he answered. "By all accounts it's just some bottle. A very ,very valuable one, to be sure, but just a bottle. Let's roll!"

****elsewhere***

"Greetings, Lord Borak. I'm sure you'll find that--"

"Shut up," he said, walking down the column-filled corridor, his pearl-inlaid boots making soft clacking sounds on the immaculate marble. While being an orc made people doubt his magical power, it made ordering lackeys much easier. "Every moment I'm here is one more moment I'm not in Erie getting fed grapes by naked elven princesses. I'm here to re-lay a collapsing magical barricade that thinks it's going to usher in the next EarthDawn. If everything is NOT according to my explicit instructions I'm going to start killing people until they are. Speak again and I'll set your vocal chords on fire."

Lord Borak the Despoiler had a lot of work to do. He hated interruptions.

**********************

"Okay, Alanna. You grabbed it. Now hang on to it!"

Derrick was beaming. They did it. They FRAGGING DID IT! The object of the run, the bottle, was in her pack. All they had to do was get out.

"Oh. What. The. Frag?" came a booming voice from down the marble hall. The end of the hall where the exit was.

Derrick looked at the focus-speckled orc that was confidently striding down the hall. "He...he isn't supposed to be here."

Somebody opened fire. Then everybody did.

"And here I thought this would be boring," said the orc.

****************

Everyone died.

Except her.

No bullet could touch him. No weapon could harm him. He killed them all.
She just...ran. Ran past him. Through the fire and the flames and the pain and the horrible blue light she ran.

Derrick had been open about where the meet with the Johnson was. She presented the bottle.

Dispassionately he handed over the credstick. There were.... so. many. zeroes.

"Our business is concluded," Mr. Johnson said. Of course it was.

But she had lost him. Lost Derrick, lost everything.

She made a call.

She wouldn't just be better. She'd be...everything.

Alanna woke up, and stared down the barrel of his predator.

"Just go," whispered Derrick. He sheathed his pistol and walked away.

She'd heard good things about NOLA--New Orleans, Louisiana. She bought the first ticket that was going there.

Of course she'd come back. She had to get Derrick back. She knew how. She owed him one million cred. There had to be a way.

The jovial man in a nice suit sat down heavy next to her. He offered a hand and a smile in that way that corporate people do. "Hi there. My name's Propoket."

She didn't want to make small talk, but she had to. She didn't want to offer her name. She wasn't Alanna. She was just...nobody. A ghost.

"Hi there yerself. I'm Wraith."

She was never skilled enough, and just when she was, she lost the trust of the love of her life when she abandoned him for dead and received the payoff for a whole team herself. She thinks if she replaced that payout then he'd take her back. Her driving goal is to get enough cash to win Derrick back.

Spoiler: He never loved her, and only used the excuse of her skills to try and distance himself. When -his- love died, Alanna was persistent and filled a vacuum. He's mad about the bottle fiasco, but has moved on. From everything.
Alanna neither knows this, nor would care if she did.

If data had tides, and the world was an ocean, then he loved to swim. Data and its connections interested him, and the pursuit of his interests were not always... "approved". Not that he let it stop him. He knew how the data worked, and alterations were easily made- sometimes. Still, the wake of data that any given person left behind them was huge, and that upset his sense of aesthetics. Streamlining himself, he improved more, burned his SIN to leave a smaller wake, and swam deeper into the data.

From time to time, there are posts on the boards about a shark, swimming through the data, glimpses seen out of the corners, the flash of a fin, a shifting form of glass and hints of chrome. "Selachii", they called him, since they could never agree on what kind of shark it was... He only grinned and let them debate, swimming past, a shadow on the boards and just another form in the data.

Ashley awakened in his teens and received the best schooling available. While a brilliant student, he didn't really get along with his fellow students. He was arrogant, aloof, and, to be frank, just a really big jerk. He received his ThD nearly three years early and, his parent's objections notwithstanding, took an internship at the DSI. Specializing in surveillance and reconnaissance, Ashley worked on special projects to increase and refine the country's intelligence techniques concerning Aztlan.

It was a routine mission. He really wasn't even supposed to be there. The field agents always did the heavy lifting. But this time he insisted. They had been tracking an Aztlan intelligence agent for a year, and Ashley personally wanted to be there when they took her down. But when she went down the spirits she'd been controlling got loose. Ashley boldly stepped in thinking that controlling them would be trivial. How could it not be? They belonged to some random mage and he'd written a thesis on dismissing this specific type of spirit. What could go wrong? The bullet caught him in the shoulder. The spy's partner was still alive. His concentration faltered. The spirit broke free...and so did hell.

The official report was that the intelligence threat was neutralized and Ashely was even given an award. His team, what was left of it, were reassigned to different places within the DSI. As for Ashley, he spent two months in a coma. After returning to work he found he couldn't focus, and a psych review led to him being given medical leave to seek help. He went home to NOLA to find that not much had changed. His father was still quite political. His mother was still disappointed with his life choices.

A few months into his forced break he came home to the sound of sirens and flashing lights. They told him his mother had been murdered and that his father was missing and suspected as the killer. His father's assets had been seized. Ashley had nothing but the clothes on his back, his old service pistol, and nowhere to go. The DSI didn't want him back, what "friends" he had in the DSI that were still alive blamed him for the failed mission, and he never really had any friends outside of work. What did he do now?

Personality: Ashley used to be an arrogant, self-assured, jerk. But recent events have humbled him almost completely. While he's still finds himself being a bit of an intellectual elitist he's much more aware of his biases these days and tries to overcome them. He has a very forceful personality and is used to getting his way, either by authority or money. Neither of which he currently has.

However, if he's also been accused of fraud, then they would freeze his assets as soon as they could get an indictment against him. So you might want to add that to the backbround, to account for the loss of assets.

Finally, the life insurance policy for the mother would still pay off, but not to the father, to Ashley. However, with the father out of action, and a question about who killed her, the insurance would withhold payment pending the eventual criminal outcome, or until compelled by a court. So that would be potential money he could look forward to down the road (although it probably won't come up in game).

For the anacronistic guns, that would be a distinctive style (a flaw in the system parlance). The guns would likely have a lower power level compared to modern firearms. On the other hand, nobody can slip a virus into them, nobody can stop them from working with EMP grenades, etc.

Another idea you might want to consider is that Roy was a doctor before he retired to the farm? Or maybe a medic in the military? Roy might have even served in the Ghost Dance War.

Are you going pure melee, or are you also throwing in some ranged?

She has background knowledge about magic, enough to know what it generally can and cannot do, and how to counter it; she is skilled with a motorcycle (and makes a partial living as a motorcycle courier), and is getting familiar with boats, and will probably possess a L1 VCR. She is a decent backup negotiator, and is quite familiar with corporate etiquette; she is a good gymnast and a dancer as well. If you're thinking River Tam's combat style from the movie 'Serenity', well, you wouldn't be wrong. (I DID think of it before the movie came out, though. ;) )

Particularly, Shugyōsha is designed to blend in. A cyberscan will typically show a bunch of acceptable implants (retinal mods, inner-ear implant (i.e. cyberears), a L1 VCR, climbing claws, a smartgun link - but nothing that screams 'this person must be detained'. Her bioware implants give her speed and rapidity, but bioware is, after all, designed to not be easily detectable, eh? She has a wide variety of corporate-centric knowlege skills, and a smattering of languages; I need to get her a skillsoft jukebox and a bunch of language chips, which fortunately are not that terribly expensive, to mesh with her knowsoft link.

So more than a street samurai, she is a mastermind - someone who can creatively link activities between all six skillsets.

Since building Shugyōsha (or, really, any SR character) is old hat to me, I do already have the NSRCG html files on my Google Drive. Feel free to download and browse. You'll probably have a question or two; I have a couple questions/requests myself, in regards to possible skill variations / house rules, as well as whether or not we can use the equipment build rules (in my case, pistols and motorcycle) at game start.

I'd rather use 'out of the box' equipment for starting equipment, primarily because you're all new to the streets (from a game perspective) and also to make it easier on the newbies (from a meta perspective). Once the game has begun, I'm not opposed to using the build rules for anything (decks, cars, guns) as long as you have the skills or the right contacts.

So, Shugyosha is less of a Street Samurai as she is a former corporate bodyguard who washed out, which is what I was thinking, but it helps to have the confirmation. So, a backup rigger and negotiator. I think she might end up being a 'jack of all trades master of none' type, which is not necessarily a bad thing.