"I'm glad our new fixer has a level head on his shoulders," Nix says with a small nod. She gives him her contact information for one of her aliases, the same info that the Muldoons had gotten earlier, before he heads out. "I'll be looking forward to it." She flicks open her comm and checks the time. "And I've got an appointment too. I'll catch up with you later today or tomorrow. I'm going to be late to my doctor's appointment if I don't get moving."
As Nix exits, Hugo also takes his leave. He will check his comm for any rentals in the student ghetto near MIT&T. He is looking for something out of the way, quiet and fairly secure. Probably Middle Class, but it does not need to be huge, maybe even just a 2 bedroom condo.
You might feel a bit nervous as you approach the building, and not just because it's a plain structure in a sketchy neighborhood. You don't actually know the doctor who works here, or if it's an actual doc or a street chopper, or even if it's a man or a woman. All you know is an address on one of your father's contact cards--thank God he kept them, old-fashioned as they were--with the note Street Doc, Gene Work--Vic?. On the back, as with most of his cards, is a note for you, in case you needed to contact them. Mostly they're ways to introduce yourself; in this case, Just use my name.
Although it may not be that simple. You only found the contact cards a few days ago, tucked in one of his damaged suits, and you don't actually know any of them beyond the sparse notes. Considering how much the man tried to hide you from it all, it's doubtful how many, if any, of his contacts know you exist, and it's hard to say if they'd believe the facts.
But you knew you needed an appointment, so here you are. The door to the building is locked, but there's a small camera and intercom system by the handle. Looks like it's time for first impressions.
A moment later there's a buzz and the mechanical thump of at least two deadbolts shifting out of lock. You push open the door and descend a flight of dimly lit stairs to find another utility door, this one also locked. You knock, and a few more deadbolt sounds later, it opens up to reveal a surprisingly clinical space. It's not exactly sterile white and shining chrome, but it's obviously dedicated to medical procedures and not just a chop shop in a basement. You can see several cabinets and desks, as well as stands and beds and more. Most of the equipment looks like it was state of the art ten years ago, but unless you want one big digital footprint, that's about the best you're going to get... and if the doc knows what they're doing, it's more than enough for modern procedures.
The doc in question is a dwarf in a wheelchair. His clothes make him look more like a wageslave accountant than a street doc, except for the curious contraptions on his legs. The bushy grayed mustache, balding head, and hornrim glasses add to the look, and he peers up at you with wary hazel eyes. True to his word, he has what looks like a large syringe in his hands, filled with some liquid that you probably don't want anywhere near your skin.
"You'd better start talking, miss. I don't know this David, but if I did, I highly doubt he'd send someone to me without notifying me first. Especially if I hadn't heard from him in some time." He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't move the syringe... yet.
The building is an older one, not very up to date with the latest tech, but it certainly seems pleasant enough. The man takes you up to the third floor and down a hall to the apartment. "Now, if you're worried about security, I know it don't look like much, but it's solid locks all around. Plus you got the rest of us." He looks back and smiles as he unlocks the door. "Maybe half the building's retired boys in blue, most of us on pension from when they privatized the cops. Not a lot of trouble around here, and everyone's friendly."
He winks and chuckles as he opens the door, revealing a small but comfortable apartment. "Window would've had a look at the bay once, so I'm told, but they put up another row of buildings, so it ain't much. But the space should do well enough for you. And you're free to walk around the building when you like. Like I said, everyone's friendly, so give a knock and you'll probably get invited in for a drink and a chat."
He gestures around the room. "Furniture comes with the place. Couch there isn't a foldout, but it'll do in a pinch for sleeping. Trid screen comes with the place, and we've got a deal for basic virtual windows in the whole place. Oh, I should probably warn you, the CHN's on the fritz. We're trying to fix it, but for now, expect your meals at odd hours if you don't make 'em yourself." He sighs and smiles. "Course, that isn't too bad. June's got a garden on the roof, and she usually shares her crop with all the tenants. Nothing special, but it livens up the soy."
He sits on one of the stools and rubs his hands in thought. "Oh, I know this is a little small, but it's got perks. Rent here gets you parking at the closest garage, if you need a spot for a ride. And we've got a deal with the institute across the way, magic and tech? Let us use their libraries and rent workspaces, if you want. Part of some community outreach." He looks up with a curious smile. "Dunno if that's of interest to you. If you don't mind my asking, what is it brings you to the area, Mister...?"
"Rune...Hugo Rune. This apartment is wonderful...just what I was looking for! I am continuing my studies in magical theory and having access to the library is a fantastic bonus. Not to sound too eager, but I'll take it. Umm..what was the rent again?"
Rune wanders around the room, letting his astral senses travel the area looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Hugo sounds like a local Bostonian with maybe a bit of an accent from his travel abroad.
The dwarf wheels around and rolls further into the room, waving for you to follow him. "David never told me about a daughter, but that seems like him, too. Besides, it's not like you killed or robbed the man, so I'll take your word for it. For now." He stops and turns around again. "I'm sorry to hear he's gone missing, but David--your father--he's..." The dwarf trails off for a few seconds, and shrugs. "Well, I'm sure you know. He can take care of himself." He gives a bark of laughter and grins. "I've patched him up at least twice from the point where I'd have sworn he was already dead. But in he walked, and off he went. So I'd wager good money he's still kicking around out there somewhere."
There's a brief silence, and then the dwarf claps his hands and pushes his glasses up on his nose. "Ahh, I should introduce myself. Call me Charles. I met your father through business. I am a licensed medical professional, although for my own reasons, I prefer to avoid the bustle of modern health care system. So, Victoria. What can I do for you today?"
Hugo takes the mans hand and smiles back.
"Price seems fair and I can pay for this month and next if that is ok...like to try and keep ahead of the rent if possible. Also I would like to move in right now if that is OK? I do not have much but what I am wearing...life a travelling scholar and all..haha."
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"It's been proper fun.", Geezer mentions as the fixer leaves, then looks at the screen and the game commentary wrapping up. "Eh, gotta dash, my lovelumps. See you in the morrow, you lot.", he tells to the rest, as he leaves the bar.
Geezer leaves the bar and approaches his car. Am I forgetting something?, he thinks to himself as he opens the door and sits down, buckling up. Probably nothing. Pressing the ignition button, he taps the steering wheel impatiently, waiting for the interface to turn green. There's got to be something I forgot.
It's a fine new car, though., he thinks, as the interface blinks green, only for a red window to appear a moment later, as the onboard AR begins speaking in a calm voice. "Hello, Mrs. Ichigawa. This vehicle detects a level of alcohol content in your breath above legal limits. Please, engage GridLink." Tiredly slamming his head in the steering wheel, the honk blaring for a moment, Geezer leans back up in the seat. Oh, Ray, you tosser... you told me they ripped the bloody thing off. I'll rip their bloody b$!*$~!s off. "Oi, engage GridLink.", he grunts, lighting up a cigarette. "Yes, Mrs. Ichigawa. Loading... GridLink license is unpaid. Outstanding due: 893 nuyen. Would you like to pay this now?"
Slamming his head once again in the steering wheel, Geezer lets out a scathing litany of condemnation towards the heritage, intelligence and general membership of the metahuman race of his technicians, as he leaves the car, slamming the door loud enough for the alarm to trigger. Well, I guess I'm bloody walking, then., he vents out. "Program a route to home.", he mutters to his commlink, a yellow line appearing towards his destination.
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Beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Geezer turns down another alleyway, a small courtyard-like opening within a sea of skyscraper apartment buildings. Eyes glued to the game projected into his commlink, he throws his beer bottle away into a pile of trash. "Well that's a bloody mess of a neighbourhood...", he mutters, before carrying onwards. F$@%ing Leicester..., he mutters as a goal is scored onto the commlink screen, before his eyes spot a couple of shadows on the ground in front of him, and a clearing of a throat behind him. Oh, f!+*ing fantastic. I'll f@~#ing flay Ray.
A troll and two orks stand in front of him, accompanied by a third one walking in front of him from behind, speaking out something unintelligible, undoubtedly in Or'zet. "Oi, pal. Speak f~*@ing English, mate.", he lets out towards the third ork. The four seem like adolescents, two of them carrying pipes and boards, the troll armed with a knife the size of a sword. Rusty to boot, too. Oh, they're not even good gangers..., Geezer remarks, drawing a puff from his cigarette, before flicking it on the ground and stamping it out with his leather brogue.
"Hey, rich guy. Commlink, credsticks, and your fancy threads too, chummer.", the ork kid grins, tapping his pipe, his face full of enthusiasm and acne. "Then we let you walk away. Good deal, huh?", the speaker utters as one of them walks to Geezer, grabbing the plastic bag from his side and pulls out the rest of the six-pack of beers, opening one, as Geezer's face turns red. I'll get you, you little s~@@e.
Raising his hands in the air, Geezer reaches for his wrist, taking off his rather fancy commlink. The troll takes a step towards him, grabbing the thing in his arm, leading to another comment in Or'zet from the ork kid, letting out a laugh.
"Listen, mate, I f!#+ing warned you about English.", Geezer grunts, his sad attempt at a 'worried for his life' face turning into an angry grin. As the troll turns around, Geezer's hands dash out with blinding speed, grabbing his by the horns, as he jumps up against the troll, whose face turns into a mask of surprise.
With a gut-wrenching crack, Geezer's forehead slams into the troll's, sending blood and fragments of horn flying everywhere as the troll's left horn is sundered clean off his head. The troll takes a step backwards with a sad yelp and crashes on the ground. Geezer swirls around in a high roundhouse kick, sending the beer thief flying full nearly ten feet backwards into the wall of a brick shed. The two orks start running away, but the speaker trips into the troll's knife, tumbling into the ground, rambling swears in a trembling Or'zet.
Geezer steps forward, grabbing the guy by the scruff on his neck, and drags him towards the small brick shed. "Now, you sorry f+!&!", he grunts out loudly over the kid's uncessant ramblings. "Shut your gob, you tosser!", he barks, slapping the kid on the face, which does little to stop the screaming. "I said, shut it!", he roars, as his fist flies into the brick wall mere inches next to the guy's head in an explosion of brick and mortar, sinking all the way to the elbow, which results in a quieting from the thug and a rapidly expanding blot on his pants. "Roit. So, you little incompetent git. You give me your bloody commlink and whatever else I can pawn off for a cab home, and an apology in good f@!&ing honest King's English, and then I'll not see if I can bring down this bike shack down with your head. Deal?", he roars out, throwing the kid on the ground. "Cough it up, tosser! Happy pills, happy dusts, commlinks, everything. Not your f&%#ing shoes, though. F@!@ing American obsession with bloody shoes...", he mutters out, as the kid leaps up and starts rummaging through his and his friends' pockets.
A few second later, having lit up a cigarette, Geezer is presented with two incredibly old commlinks, a lint-covered pill and a small bag of, seemingly, weed. Two second-hand Meta-Link 4S... I'm not f$!#ing touching that s$#@... And a bag of cush. Great. Barely going to cover the dry cleaning bill. Stuffing the loot in his pockets, Geezer looks at the kid. "I'm sorry we tried to mug you, mister sir." Grinning, Geezer taps the kid on the shoulder, who winces away instinctively. "That's better." He reaches in his pocket, pulling out a card. "That's my number, name's Geezer. You or your lot need a motor or need to see one disappear, give me a ring. If you think of holding a f$#*ing grudge, don't. Those don't pay well at all, son, and I'll bash your f@*%ing face in for real." He leaps up, picks up the rest of his beers and goes on his way.
Shortly, the dwarf's wheelchair ratchets up to a higher position, and he's examining your eyes with a biometric-optical scanner. "Interesting," he comments, his own eyes narrowed almost to the point of being closed. "You said prepped? I haven't seen gene work like this in some time. Your father behind this?" He lowers the scanner for only a moment, then shakes his head. "No, actually. Don't tell me. Better that way." He turns and rolls over to a cabinet, then rummages through the contents for a few seconds before turning back with a syringe in one hand and an empty vial in the other. "I'll need a sample to make sure, just a tear will do, but I believe all you need is an enzyme to trigger the gene you need. That's the standard procedure they had when I was working with this sort of thing. But it isn't cheap, you understand, and I need the payment up front."
He wheels up to you and hands you the vial, then smiles. "I'd very much like to examine your genetics further, but I doubt you'll agree to that. So let's keep this simple business for now."
The morning after meeting their fixer, the team all receive a message on their comms from him. Upon checking the message, they each discover a pre-recorded video message of Tilt. He appears to be sitting in a chair in a small but well-lit room, visor and all, and he smiles into the tridcam as he speaks.
The man leans back in his chair, and then there's a cut in the footage--probably edited to when he starts talking again, now sitting straight. "So we probably already went over some of your dos and don'ts for working, but first thing first for me is going over my own. These are general deals and they're mostly for your own sake, but I like to get them out of the way. First"--he holds up one finger--"I'm not a superstitious guy, but nobody uses the m-word to talk about a job. I've never seen it make things go sideways personally, but I'm not about to take the risk. Some jobs are easier than others, but don't go mouthing off about it. At best, you're just wasting air, huh?"
There's another brief edit and Tilt's hand are clasped in his lap. "Second, the big one: corps. I'm talking the trips, not Mister McNamara's pharma chain. It's a tricky subject, but I'll give you my take. Everyone knows the three A's are where the big bucks are at, so to speak, but they also bring big trouble. In my mind, that trade usually isn't worth it." He shrugs again, with another sheepish half-smile. "I'll be up front with you chums. I said earlier I've worked with three real teams. Over the years with those teams, I've had nearly twenty runners in and out. Out of those, I've only lost three. They were all together, and it was their own fault, but I take responsibility." This time, there's a pause in his speech, as Tilt leans back and takes a slow, heavy breath. "And that happened after a run for a Triple A. We did what they wanted, but I guess those three left some hints behind. So our Johnson's bosses decided to clean house."
Tilt sighs and leans forward again. "That brings me to my third point. I take care of my own as best I can. That means I'm not afraid to have one team help another out if I need to. And I don't shy away from working as my own Johnson." He pauses for a moment, and you can almost see him considering the phrasing, but he shakes his head slightly and reaches forward. The tridcam view turns upward to view a section of wall on a side of the room. Mounted on the wall near the ceiling is a magnificent katana with a matching red scabbard. "The Reds don't know I'm the one who has this, so I'm trusting you won't go sharing. I hope that shows this is a two-way street."
The tridcam shifts back to Tilt in his chair. "And now I'm at my last point. At the start of this I called you my clients, and I mean that. Some fixers think the runners work for them. Some runners think they work for their fixers." He chuckles and shakes his head. "But in my mind, you work for the Johnson, and I work for you. The bottom line is that I'm looking to make this the most productive experience that it can be for all of us, and that means getting you the best jobs, with the most intel, and the best chance of success with no casualties. I've got experience, I've got a good head. And without going into it, I've got a personal stake in doing the best I can by my runners." He smiles and spreads his hands. "And that's it. I hope it all sounds good to you, omae. And I look forward to a long and profitable time together." He raises one hand as if lifting a glass, and nods just before the trid ends.
Later, a little before noon, they each get another message from the man, this time a text in a group conversation.
Pinb@11Wiz@rd: Got a job for you, chummers. Good starter run, see how you work together. You in?
Victoria spends most of the day getting used to her new eyes. The sun seems almost obnoxiously bright and she ends up picking up a new set of sunglasses with some... interesting add-ons to replace her old pair's night vision set up. She can't help but notice that her eyes seem to have a sheen now, reflective like a cat. "I wonder if dad had a different night vision aug or if he never bothered," she absently wonders, seeing the unfamiliar glow. The evening brings both relief and a chance to see just how effective her new implant is. The doc's work does not disappoint.
The next morning, she listens to their new fixer's message over breakfast. By the end, she's having trouble deciding if he's the humblest fixer in Boston, or just nuts. Considering that he keeps a Red's stolen katana in his house, or maybe a trophy of a kill, he just might be crazy. Still, she can respect crazy as long as it's in moderation. When the second message comes, she taps out a quick reply.
B0rnSp3cia1: Where do you want to meet?
Hugo spends time up on the roof getting to know some of his new neighbors and helping to weed the rooftop garden.
When he returns to his apartment, he sits and watches the trid that Tilt sent. He nods at the various points and when it is done he feels better in knowing the people he will be working for seem to have some sort of code of honor. When he receives the second message he takes a moment to decide on what to say, but then sees Nix's response and quickly types his own.
In voluntatem Dei: Ready to go. Time and Place?
Nathaniel takes a break from sparring with Cuervo, ducking under the huge orc's swing before rolling toward the wall, holding up a hand to let him know to take a breather. Nathaniel just whistles when he watches the video, pointing out the katana to Cuervo. "That's gotta take some guts, I'll admit." When he sees the message ding shortly after he finds the video, he takes pause. He thinks for a moment, then logs into his chat client. The old screen handle, chosen when he'd first started with Ares, blinked up. "I've only worked with three real teams, he remembers, Tilt's voice in his head. He opens up the client to edit the name, then grins.
"A team, huh? Probably a little different than my last one, but I'll take it."
Sparassidae: When's the meeting? I'll be there.
Realising they're out of soymilk, Geezer saunters back to the table with a scowl, giving his tea a sniff, then throwing back a sip with a grunt. Rubbing his face with a massive palm, he reaches into the plate, scooping his beans with a piece of bacon and starts chewing with delight. "Now that's a proper breakfast.", he relays to Pam, who sits next to an overflowing ashtray and a cup of coffee, the chemical smell of nail polish reaching Geezer's nose to prompt a frown. Finishing the plate in record time, he places his slippered feet on the table and reaches for a cigarette just as the commlink chirps in with a tune.
"Now that's a fancy sword.", she comments halfway through the message, letting Geezer chuckle. "Aye, I don't imagine that's for buttering muffins, love.", he replies. As the message finishes, she lets out a raspy laugh, exhaling the smoke through her nose. "Let the f#@#er know, if that fixing doesn't work out for him, we can surely put him in advertisement."
"Will do, hen.", Geezer replies, cracking his knuckles.
Villan61: In it, innit? Where's the meet?
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The brief flashback has, at least temporarily, a stark effect on Wraith, and she looks up at her beeping comm sitting on the floor, dressed in an over-sized t-shirt and boxers, surrounded by gun parts in various states of disassembly and cleaning.
She puts down the ARES slider she had been wiping with a gun-oil soaked rag and takes a sparing sip from the tumbler of whiskey at her side.
She stares at video in unmoving silence. "No you don't," she smiles and says at the Red's sword, a clever stalking horse. No doubt whoever came looking for that sword would find nothing of the sort, and the squealer would get a short push and a long fall. Quick way to weed out the bad ones.
Well played.
The message from the Johnson finds her washed and dressed and prepped, hair pulled back and her fresh face crooks a grin, as if expecting the message.
"And so it begins," she says to no one.
S1lenceIncor0rated: Attention grabbed. Details?
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It will be rude to ask for the improved Warhawk I mentioned in Discussion almost a month ago after the absence, but hey... A man's gotta try, amirite?
Sarge rolled on the bed when his commlink started beeping, his arm swiping over the night table tripping empty packs of cigarettes and a half-full bottle. "G~+&+%mit, Nick, did you drink yourself stupid or something?" muttered the ex-PI as he crawled out of the bed and towards the device sitting by the sofa and beeping like a thunderous church bell.
Or is it the hangover, Nicky Nick? Not likr you've stepped inside God's House for a long time
After getting himself an extra Irish recaff and a pack of cigs from the kitchen, Nick sat at the couch to watch the trid. "Man got balls, gotta respect that..." he commented at the sight of the sword and mention of his career.
Later that day Nick was going through his third... Or it was fifth? Whatever. Nick was getting himself right and proper drunk at a pub when the text message arrived. "Anyone know how the hell do I change this thing's name? Whoever comes here first gets a round on me." he yelled dragging the words with a pasty voice.
After his nickname related dilemma was solved he answered.
SmellLikeTrollSpirit: Copy'd boss, send details.
SmellLikeTrollSpirit: The hell is that name? Motherdrekker is asking for it, give me a moment here...
Twenty minutes and a pair of mildly bloodied knuckles later Nick sat with a new pint and drew his commlink again.
Whisk3yInTheJ@r: Solved. When and where?
Tilt waits to respond with the meeting's details until everyone's checked in, but it doesn't take long after Nick's name resolution for him to reply.
Pinb@11Wiz@rd: Double Teahouse, over in Natick, upstairs. 1400. If you like to carry for meets, carry concealed. Drinks on me.
When the team arrives shortly before 2 PM, they find the Double Teahouse to be a modern construction, appearing to be slightly taller than a single story, but not tall enough for two. Entering inside reveals why: the entry level has a half-flight of stairs leading both up and down, the doors themselves opening on a midpoint landing. There's an obvious split in the decoration and tone of the upstairs and downstairs: the lower level has some glowing neon in bright, pulsing colors leaking out, along with thrumming music heavy on the bass and not much else. A couple of drunk humans are groping each other by the door.
The upstairs, however, has a much calmer atmosphere, and the group ascends the stairs to find themselves in a teahouse with walls and ceiling almost entirely made of glass, or at least a transparent material that looks close enough. The lighting is subtle and warm, and it accentuates the little sun that pokes through the sprawl's smoggy clouds. There are tables throughout with customers sipping drinks or eating what might be close to real food, and the background music is tinkling and soft, if a tad annoying when you focus on it.
Given the size of the place, it isn't long before the team spots Tilt, who waves them over to the long table where he's waiting with another man--presumably the Mr. Johnson. That man looks like he'd be more comfortable downstairs--his hair is done up in greasy dreads, his fake leather jacket has studs on the shoulders, and tattoos crawl up his chest and neck from the stained, ripped shirt he's wearing. He's holding a teacup in an almost comical mismatch of cultures, and looks more than a little uncomfortable. Tilt, on the other hand, looks right at home, sipping his tea as the team approaches.
"Ah, good. Right on time. Everyone, this is your Mister Johnson. Mister Johnson, your team." Tilt's voice is relaxed, but only loud enough for the table to hear--anyone beyond would only catch that someone's talking, not what they're saying. "Please, have some tea. Half the bag is real leaves, it's quite a treat." Mr. Johnson scowls at Tilt's easy attitude, but the fixer just chuckles and takes another sip. "Normally I don't show up to every meet, but I never pass up an opportunity for a fresh cuppa. You like Russian Caravan?"
Rune sits and takes a cup of tea and leaves it sitting, untouched, before him. Not a great lover of the drink, he attunes himself to the area and takes a quick peak into astral space to make sure no one and nothing is taking any notice of them. He also peaks at all those around the table, sensing their auras so he could identify them if needed in the future.
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Anya sticks her tongue out at the concealed carry line. She had been hoping to get her Ruger some face time, so she'll just have to look for a way to bring it to party time later.
"Why yes! I would like a cuppa tea. I mean, you need to fortify it with brandy for the thing to be drinkable, but I try not to let that stop me."
She winks and holds her hand up in the universal sign of 'rounds needed'.
OF course she's giving the Johnson a once over. It's just good manners.
= 5 hits
Victoria puts on her suit again, wanting to look nice for a meeting with a prospective client. She double checks the suit to make sure it's wrinkle free and tucks her HK into the concealed holster under the jacket. It's hard to get more concealed than that.
The dichotomy between the two floors of the tea house is almost amusing. Given the name, that might be exactly the point. She keeps a level expression as she takes a seat at the table across from Tilt and the Johnson. "If you don't mind." She pulls a small white noise generator, small enough to fit in her palm, from her jacket and sets it on the table, flicking the on switch. "For privacy." She accepts a cup of tea with a small, polite smile and delicately sniffs the cup before taking a small sip. Beneath her glasses, her eyes dart over the tattooed man, curious as to what their new employer might be after.
Huh. That's a fun joint..., chuckles Geezer to himself as he opens the door and throws his finished cigarette outside. Sending a tusked grin in the direction of the gropers, he goes up the stairs to see the rest surrounding the table. Business up there, party downstairs. If I wasn't meeting a Johnson here, I might even bring the bird some day., he thinks, sitting on the table and popping his collar. A Union Jack t-shirt is visible under the man's heavy coat, as he cracks his knuckles, sitting next to Nyx, and nodding at both Tilt and the Johnson. "Do I bloody love Russian Caravan? I'll take my f+!!ing payment in the f&%$ing thing, mate.", he chuckles, taking a cup and sniffing it, before sitting forward. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Johnson.", he says with a grin, rubbing his nose. Well, he doesn't look like what Johnsons usually look. Was expecting some corporate numpty.
Taking a long sip, he starts talking. "So, you lot already took care of security. So to the point. What's the job, Mr. Johnson?"
Nathaniel thinks for a while about bringing along a concealed pistol, but ultimately decides to go in with just his knife; it's too much of a hassle to conceal the pistol, and he figures the others are likely to carry. Besides, he can disable foes in the Matrix if he has to.
When they show up for the meet, Nathaniel keeps his skepticism of the Johnson to a cursory glance up and down. The man certainly wasn't what he was expecting, but Tilt seemed to take what he did seriously. Nathaniel decides to just sit down after giving the Johnson a good once over, and nods his head in response to the tea. He takes a long sip of the hot drink, then sets it down on the table. He gives Nix a nod when she sets down the white noise generator. "I'm sure there'll be time for pleasantries, but I agree with Geezer over here. What's the job?"
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"Fancy place... Really fancy." Nick comments as he takes a seat.
The ex-PI didn't have too many clothes to choose from, in the end deciding to throw his long coat over a mostly clean white t-shirt and a relatively thin black hoodie in which you could still almost read B.P.D.
He didn't forget his firearm, though, one of the perks of having lead a mostly legal life was his ConCealed Carry License.
"Russian Caravan isn't my cup of tea." Nick commented with a chuckle at his pun "I'll have Earl Gray, no sugar, with cream and a splash of scotch. In a glass, not a cup."
And not a second before he did have his drink he finally made eye contact with the Johnson. "You look like a ganger. No offense nor complaint, pal, just stating the elephant in the room because I can't be the only one that expected a damn Suit with a mysterious suitcase and limey accent. With that out of the window... What must we know about the "
The ex-PI watched Mr. Ganger closely, trying to figure what he thought of the group and if he lied to them.
"Love the enthusiasm, crew. As always." Tilt takes a sip of tea to stifle what looks like a smile, and nods as Victoria sets her device on the table. "Nice touch. As far as brandy and scotch, sorry gang, but that's the downstairs gig. The Upper Tea adds a touch of class to any meeting, and it's a lot easier to hear yourself think, too." A waitress comes over shortly, and Tilt orders a second pot along with a cup of Earl Grey for Nick.
It's only after the tea's delivered and everyone has a cup that Tilt gestures to Mister Johnson. "So, chummer. What can my associates and I do for you today?"
The Johnson shifts and sets his cup down, licks his lips and looks around. "Well, I want you guys to knock over a restaurant. You know, rob the place? Do it real tough like, go in real gang style, right? Bust down the door, make some threats, get the money and go. No fuss." He drums his fingers on the table. "You in?"
"Sending a message," Victoria surmises. "Doesn't sound complicated, which means there has to be a catch. Details?"
Taking a long moment to sniff the tea, then to enjoy a long drink, Geezer sends a glance at both the Fixer and the Johnson when the task is given. Could do that. Well, I suppose this whole shadowrunning isn't all stealing a gubbin from a corp at all times, regardless what the trids say. Twirling the cup-side biscuit between his fingers, he points towards the Fixer. "Sure thing, mate. Knocking a business is easy.", he says, a smile appearing on his face. "I'd let someone other geezer do the threats, though, not too many Brummie gangs in Boston.", he chuckles, throwing the biscuit in his mouth. "So what's the place, and how much dosh are we talking?" And let's see what's the pay. After we know what it is, let's see if we can sell him the 'Geezer Special' extra., he thinks, wiping crumbs away from his chin.
Nathaniel nods along with what Nix says. "I agree, something here smells funny. Where are we going?" He takes a sip of his tea, raising an eyebrow. "How much are you paying?"
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Wraith smiles inwardly, enjoying Tilt's nervousness. Not that she wished the man bad, she hardly knew him, she just liked to see people squirm.
Of course that gives her little comfort when it becomes clear that no booze will be served, and her own skin starts to crawl. Of course she had fortified herself before the meeting, but now she found herself as a sister of Tilt, wishing this goes quickly.
"Why you gotta be like that," she finds herself blurting at Nix and Pally. "Mebbe he just want a b$$#& slapped? Why's everything gotta be a conspiracy? Don't worry about that," she says, turning back to the Johnson, "but we do need to know how "hard" you need it to be. Is killing wanted? Tolerated? Acceptable? Unacceptable? How about wounds? How much you want smashed? On a scale of 1 to 10, where 10 is the same condition we found it, and 1 is burn the fragger to the ground?
And, yeah, how much 'yen are you putting up? I'm assuming this isn't a "you get to keep the take" 'cause it's gonna take more'n the two 20's in ma an' pop's till to get me to put my pants on, know what I'm sayin'?"
Rune hangs back in the questioning as he watches his companions grill tilt on details. Although the ideal of robbing a place seems a bit bizarre in this day and age, as most places do not even have any "hard cash" on hand, thanks to cred sticks and other modes of electronic transfers, he can only equate it to an attempt to influence the owners for some reason. Distasteful for a man like him...or perhaps the man he once was, but a job is a job and as long as no one was to be assassinated in the process, he supposed he would have to go alone with it. How the mighty had fallen, he thinks to himself.
The flurry of questions seems to catch the Johnson off guard for a moment, but he picks out a couple and rubs his neck with a sheepish look. "Yeah, 'where's the catch,' huh? I shoulda figured." He turns to Tilt. "Hey, maybe I take this somewhere else, find a group who isn't so curious..."
Tilt sets his tea down with a laugh. "Omae, any group worth the pay is gonna ask at least what my team wants to know. Sounds we could all guess half the cards anyway, so you might as well show your hand."
The ganger scowls, but nods. "Yeah. Okay." He actually picks up his cup as though to take a sip, then second-guesses it and sets it back down. "As far as catch, like trouble, there shouldn't be any. Just in and out, scare up the wagers inside, grab the creds, get the hell out. I guess that's the real catch, if anything--you gotta make a bit of a scene." He glances at Wraith and thinks for a moment. "On the scale, maybe a seven, eight? You don't gotta kill nobody, unless they wanna be a hero or something. Just scare 'em.
"As for the place and pay, they go hand in hand. It isn't exactly just a restaurant, see. It's like a combination restaurant and trid theater, like one of them old-time places? Pretty wicked idea honestly, you ask me. It's popular with the wageslave types, you know, grab a bite to eat, catch the new movie, and they play everything. Called the Classic." He licks his lips. "So yeah, the pay is what you take from the place, but I'm not talking double digits, here. You know what they're showing this weekend?" He leans forward. "Creatures of Bavaria is opening. That new flick about... I dunno what it's about, honestly. But every wageslave and his wife is gonna go see it tonight, and anybody that can't is gonna go tomorrow. They do two showings a night, seats about eighty wagers, plus they get meals and all. Add that all up, whaddaya get?" He pats the table, clearly more comfortable now that he's well into talking shop. "We're talking thousands here. If that don't get your pants on, it'll blow 'em right off, right?"
With his speech over, Johnson seems to become aware of his surroundings again, and fidgets as he sits back. "Anyway, only other 'catch,' if you wanna call it that, is a small one. You gotta wear jackets, like this." He turns in the seat slightly and gestures at his own attire. The back shows a complicated if shoddy symbol that appears to have once been a Red Sox B. "Wear whatever else you want, but we give you the jackets and you put 'em on. Sound pissa?"
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Wraith's jaw drops open in shear amazment, and she nakedly reaches for her hip flask, and drinks deeply before returning it.
Any who gaze at her in disapproval get a return stare that could melt lead.
"So, your job, which you are putting before us. Us, professional hitmen and thugs that do this for a living, is that you will 'let' us smash'n'grab a place--of _your_ choosing--and you are generosly allowing us to just keep what we get. But we also have to do it in a way of your direction, -while- looking like trained monkeys?
Dude.
Does it dawn upon you that if I wanted to knock over a place of business and just keep the take I'd...knock over a place of business of -my- choosing and just keep the take?
He who pays the piper calls the tune.
Hence.
If you want to call the tune. Chummer. You gotta pay the piper."
= 3 hits
Breaking his silence, Rune confronts the "Ganger"
"I would have to agree with Ms. Whit..errr Wraith's assessment of this run. You obviously want us to intimidate someone and make it look like it was your gang...or is this your gang? Whatever, the payoff is nothing to us...mere pence to the nu-yen. You have to make it worth our while, or you can find someone else to play whatever game you are attempting to play."
Negotiation: =4 hits
Geezer grins, clearly enjoying the sight of Wraith being rather tired of the Johnson's plan. "Jesus.", he mutters, tilting his head backwards as she reaches for the flask. "Sounds a tad bit s&+$e, love, got me there.", he says a second later, shrugging at the ganger. Though, robbing businesses without checking isn't the smartest move, love. You can run in after the day they emptied, you can run in one protected by the families, or you can hit mine. Geezer sends a tusky grin, putting a fist to his jawline until his knuckles crack. Last one's the worst.
Taking another sip from his tea, his eyes start darting around the place, fingers drumming on the table. "So. Eighty a pop, make it seventy for grub. If we're talking hundred seats, that's 30k in the register end of night, easily." He looks at the rest. "Not like a geezer can retire on that, but isn't the worst payday. Especially not if your guys can cough up something extra." Geezer nods at both Hugo and Wraith. "So like the short-tempered bird said, we need some dosh. But what you've got is some, wotsit, bonafide professionals in return."
"So this is the deal, yeah?", he says, leaning forward in a conspirational whisper. "You and your lot might be robbing the place for whatever reason. Maybe you'se have to be the toughest gang, or maybe just about having them piss you off, yeah? Don't care, myself, all noble goals." He shrugs. "You and your gang scrounge together, say, one and a half fat ones per head, fixer here included." He waves his hands, as if trying to paint the Johnson a picture. "And on your end, you get to have your brand seen punching through a damn wall, getting the money like a damn pro, and then punching through another, slightly thicker wall on the way out. If rep's what you're wanting, mate - can't beat that for cred."
Johnson is taken aback by Wraith's response, and he turns with a somewhat shocked expression to Rune and Geezer. "Ah. Well. I did already check the place, know the take'll be good, and I got more info to help if you take the job. So it isn't like you're just going in blind like on your own. But yeah, you got a point." He squirms in his seat for a few seconds, then nods. "Alright. How about this. One k each when the job is done, plus gratitude from me and mine. You're in the neighborhood you give us a ring, right? I'll even throw in the jackets for you to keep."
Nathaniel smirks at the mention of the jackets, but he nods at the payment. "That'd probably be what, five thousand for each of us, plus a grand on top? I'm willing to do the job."
"A acceptable pay for a milk run. If the team is satisfied, then I'm willing to take the job." She had a feeling that a gang that can't knock over a movie theater on their own probably won't be that useful for favors, but they might find something to use them for later.
"Hey now, don't go throwing that word around. That's a surefire way to make sure one of us is going to need some new chrome by the time we're done."
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"There! See? Isn't this fun? Goods and services in exchange for tendered currency. That's what it's all about.
Now, you expressly forbid murder, so I'm sure someone is gonna not be breathing by the end of this, and that's fine. Collateral damage and all that. Maybe one of us too, anything can happen. Let's have a drink!" Wraith says, smiling at Paladin as she takes a big swig from the glass in front of her.
She grimaces as she remembers that it's non-alcoholic tea and her iron will forces the tea down harshly.
Tilt all but spit-takes when Nix uses the m-word, and you get the sense he's glaring at her behind his visor for a moment. He quickly masks it well, though, and claps his hands with a smile. "Well, it sounds like we have a deal, then. Are we agreed, Mister Johnson? Team?"
The ganger nods and clenches his hands together. "Yeah, yeah, it sounds good to me. And I don't wanna say no killing at all, just, you don't have to. Like, don't go in there looking to geek the crowd or nothing, yeah? If you gotta wing somebody to keep 'em from getting stupid, that's okay by me." He thinks for a moment and starts to stand, then sits back down. "Uh, so. I'll get you the address for meeting up, and we meet there Sunday at noon, okay? That's when they open for the matinee, so you'll go in once you get the jackets and everything. Sound good?"
Nix visibly rolls her eyes hard enough that the group can see it straight through her glasses. "Superstitions are for people who don't have the skill to take care of themselves. Jinxes are caused by mages, not random words."
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Nick, whose past 'jobs' usually put him on the other side of the fence regarding this kind of activities, kept a straight and simply nodded when his pals commented on how ludicrous, stupid or confusing the plan was.
Same way you first beat the streets before you start Detectiving, Nicky Nick, you gotta accept the first s@&&ty jobs
In the end the payoff was good enough, and Nick intended to scout the place before just in case... not like the team couldn't simply doublecross the gangers if the run ended being a a drekfest.
"Yeah, Mister Johnson, we have a deal. And let's have a drink and prepare, Wraith, you are damn spot on."
When the Johnson leaves, Sarge relaxes and turns to the others "I don't need to have a dog's nose, which I have, to smell the fishyness in here. If I've caught enough Mister Ganger wants us to basically be his gangers-for-hire. Not that I care, things tend to go ploint shaped even when they aren't fishy, but I suggest we do some intel work on the restautrid theatre of our own." Nick sips on his tea before turning to Tilt [b]"I know jackdrek about Runners' Etiquette, but I believe you giving us info on the Johnson is bad bussiness... how about we use our own ways to find it? Still bad bussiness? And what about, and believe me pal when I say this as a purely hypothetical question that yet could be considered plan C, betraying your contractors if and when they throw you under the bus for only a couple grands? Not that I want it to be that way, but better safe than sorry.
After the rest of the group had their say and the Johnson-ganger leaves, Rune also relaxes. While he has misgivings about taking this job, he realizes they need to start somewhere and this could be Tilt's idea of a 'test' to see what they are capable of.
As the talk turns towards scouting the place Rune speaks up.
"I can astrally assess the place and take a quick look around, if that will help. Just need to be somewhere where I will not be disturbed for the duration."
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Geezer grins as Wraith's reaction to tea unfolds once more, and he finishes his cup with a loud sound of approval. "Sure, I could go for a pint, too, and it looks like you lot need some hair of the dog.", he comments. As Hugo offers to do his astral assessment, he grins. "Oi, aye, do the mage bits. That'd come in handy.", he assesses, before putting his commlink on the table. A trid image appears of Boston's map. "Roit, Constable, ladies and other assorted gentlemen. This is the place. Hm. 4.7 on the reviews, not too shabby. Let's go for 2.7 after we're done?", he grins in a particularly thuggish manner, accompanied with a low chuckle. "I've got a motor we can use, and we can all fit in. Could probably re-fit it, and then if need be, ditch it." He points to a parking lot nearby. "If I park it there the day before, we can use it to get away, and head towards S$+*esville.", he points to a notoriously bad neighbourhood. "HorizonMaps puts this as the route, but if some geezer knows Boston well enough, they are free to drive and navigate. I'm not car-crazy, myself."
He pauses, gesturing towards the last teapot on the table, and pours himself another cup. "So, we know the buses that go there, we can grab a couple to get there, then get ready for a dramatic entrance. I've got one in mind.", he grins, cracking his knuckles on his jaw once more, followed by his neck.
"As for the tosser giving us the job, I'll put out some feelers. Could even ask the missus, actually. Hiring some blokes to smash and grab would be decent for them, getting their name out, and getting some new blood, so he might be stand-up lad. Relatively speaking. And besides.", he mentions, tapping the table twice with his rather sizeable fist. "I mentioned I can punch through walls. Geezers smart enough to go through a fixer sounds like one who wouldn't s*!# in people like us' oats for 6 fat ones, know what I'm saying?"
Geezer's plan - re-paint and plant car, go there by bus separated, coordinate strike via comms, then bust into the place, get the nyans and leave towards a barrens of sorts. (don't know if Boston has one). In the car he'd suggest removing the jackets, and hopefully ditching the pursuers, before splitting and skedaddling.
Once the Johnson is gone, Nix takes another sip of her tea. "He wouldn't need Runners if this was just about street cred unless he had a very good reason to think that his gang can't do this job on their own. Which means there's something going on he doesn't want to say. But he doesn't seem to know enough to be planning something. I'm more worried that he's a dupe for someone else who needs a distraction. We should also find all the records we can of the theater. Who owns it? Who do they work for? Who do they know? Is there a gang that runs the area and does the theater pay protection? Who will be in attendance for the night he wants us to hit? One high level corper in the audience with a few guards could send things down sh*t creek. There's an angle, but I don't know if he actually knows what it is."
"I'll see what I can find combing through their records. I'll have information on anyone who pre-ordered a ticket for the show, as well as previous sales. If it's got a lot of A-list customers, we can probably bet on a guard detail. I can poke and prod around to see if we're likely to run into a rival gang, too; either I can find something out on the Matrix or I can track down some nuyen going missing for the protection payments. I doubt they've got 'paying off the gangers' listed on their ledger." Nathaniel takes another long sip of tea, thinking on Geezer's points. Once he's finished, he lets out a sigh and sets the cup down on the coaster in front of him.
"She's right, though. There's some reason he's hiring us to do this and not doing it himself. Something he thinks his gang can't handle. That doesn't worry me, per say, but I'd like to know what it is." Nathaniel furrows his brow, one hand tapping on the edge of the table. "Whatever it is, it's enough he's turning down a ¥30,000 payday because of it. He's smart enough not to screw us, but he thinks whatever it is might be enough to get us to turn down the job." He leans forward in his chair, looking directly at Geezer. The looks on his face is nonplussed, almost too relaxed, but Nathaniel's voice is far from it. "Doesn't that intrigue you? It intrigues me."
Geezer shrugs. "Paranoia keeps people alive, but it's not good for the bank account, lads and lassies.", he shares. Turning to Paladin, he scratches his stubble. "You do Matrix gubbins, yeah? Maybe see Boston Municipality mainframe, see who owns the building, follow those breadcrumbs, you're the pro? You got the time, maybe run one of them data collecting programs with FaceTime, see what bigwigs have passed through the place." Reaching into his coat's pocket, Geezer draws out a pack of cigarettes, covered in texts in Arabic, puts one in his mouth and leaving the open pack on the table. "I'll give the missus a ring, I guess, she's the one with Boston in her blood.", he says, standing up and picking up his commlink.
"Hey, love!", he barks out, exhaling the smoke. "No, hen, sober as the Queen, for now..."
"...He's what?! No, dove, the sorry geezer isn't sick, he's f#*&ing dry. I'll bet you my left b!$~%*~ he's scratching his arms in his room right now..."
"Tell you what, don't bother with it. I'll take care of him, see if I can get him clean for a bit, and I'll give Raya a bonus for picking up his s+%$ in the garage. You ever heard of some newcoming gang, colours look like that fake cricket team your brother's always blabbing about, aye, them gits. See what you can find on them, I'll round up the paperwork after I'm home."
"...how many pages? T+~*. I'll get me a Trooper, then, don't worry about it. Cheers, love... Yeah, I'll see if I can't find a seat for that sushi place. You shrewd hag, you. Running me dry, here."
Trooper - British slang for Long Haul.
I'm using Pam as a contact regarding underworld information, and will offer to pay for it via meal/work/shifts/doing the dishes.
Not sure how that roll goes.