Uncharacteristically for the season, the midday sun goes straight for the eyes as you raise a worn head towards your beeping commlinks to indicate a message from Freddy.
>>Rise and shine, beautiful Junge! Flush whatever's cycling in your systems, 'cause you're due for a date with someone with a big wallet.
>>Meet's on the carpark on 72nd and McKinley, from 2100. Which means be there by 2030. Dress your party best, and see you there.
The crisp winter air, still as it is, is piercing cold, though the heavy rain and windfall of the previous night seems to let a certain cleanness unnatural. As you cruise into Tacoma, your comms beep once again with Freddy's call, as your fixer sends you a set of coordinates for a street over from the carpark. The Titan rolls through the mostly barren streets of Tacoma into a small street, and you're greeted with the familiar sight of Freddy leaning onto an decade-old silver BMW M8. Tucked deep into a too-big thick tarpauline jacket and a set of shades on his eyes, he waves at you as you leave the car. "Kaffer!", he grins, throwing his cigarette into the overflowing gutter. "Gotta say, pretty good so far. But don't let it go to your head.", he adds, the grin disappearing for a brief moment.
"Just remember - you've done the job, so only reason he'll want to cough up the scrip is to protect his good name and good skin. And I'm damn sure our Johnson isn't even going to be here for the meet itself, so that's the latter taken care of." A makeshift necklace leaves his pocket, Freddy's gloved fingers starting to nervously fiddle with it. "I'm keeping an eye on you, as your executive producer,", he winks, "But you seem to have a handle on it. How you gonna play this?", he asks, the leather string dancing between his fingers.
"Well, a Johnson who doesnt pay up is a Johnson who doesnt get a lot of work done. Besides, this guy doesnt seem like the 'screw thr help's kind. Maybe promise a bit much and hold back on some crucial details, but ain't that all of em?"
Nomad is still worn out and coming down from his cram jitters, and is in no mood to deal with a double cross now.
"Wraith and Sunset, why dont you stick with me, well be the meeting party for the hand off. Blacksap, a concealed position where you can bring your rifle to bear must be close by. And RR, its probably a good idea to stick close by the wheels, just in case. Glass, wherever you think best, you know your skills better than I ever will."
Nomad smooths down his newly ventilated suit jacket, checking his ammo in the Guardian and Colt pistols, then prepares to step out with Freddy.
Sounds good boss. We will keep you safe, right Wraith!"
Sun checks her pistols and ensure they are ready for action.
"I'm probably most useful as an extra pair of eyes and ears around the meet"
Glass makes an early start for the carpark, aiming to arrive in the area about 20:15 to find a spot from which he can observe without attracting attention.
If I'm doing this right, I've got 8 dice per hour to recover 6 stun, so
So the first hour's not very restful, but after 2 hours I'm good to go.
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Wraith was busy tossing little round things at little square things on her comm and is the last to exit the car, mumbling something about "Almost got this level--" before reluctantly turning the thing off and pouring herself out onto the pavement.
"Hm? Yeah, sure, Nom. Wiz plan. Yeah, chill Suns. Does that promise keep if I pick a fight with the biggest dirty stinking fragging trog in the place? Jus' asking.
Oh, no offense RR," Wraith states at RR, mentally making a note to watch her language, and immediately forgetting about that note.
Freddy seems to take in Nomad's plan well. Throwing his cigarette butt in the gutter, he nods. "Arctic, then, chummers." He scratches his ear, before pointing towards the building right on the other side with a grin. "Blacksap, best seat in the house is probably on that roof, there.", he chuckles. His eyes seem to glance unappreciatively at Wraith's comment. "There's gotta be a quote from a philosopher somewhere about that. Just don't go shouting that 'round our Johnson.", he adds coldly.
Alex's venture is successful a moment later, as at the corner of the car park he finds an old rubbish skip, clearly long abandoned. The burn marks and footsteps around it suggests that it's been used for a warming fire rather recently, but not a soul seems to be occupying the skip.
As Nomad and his "bodyguards" enter the carpark, they wait for a couple of minutes before a unassuming van, escorted by a large roadster bike rolls in. The side door of the van slides open, and a couple of hardy-looking orks walk out. As the dwarf on the bike removes her helmet, you notice that the familiar face of the Johnson's bodyguard. An unfriendly looking machinegun hangs on a sling across her shoulder. Giving Nomad and his entourage a glance, she sends a 24 karat smile at the trio. "Alright, chummers, let's talk shop. I got some newsreel, but the boss wants to know the deets.", she asks, fishing out a hand-rolled cigarette from behind her ear.
"Well, where to begin? I mean, if you've seen the scan, you know the basics. Five or six bodies cooling in the night air, small fire, and your local rent-a-racists are suddenly nowhere to be found."
Nomad pulls out the antique typewriter and sheaf of paper the man had been writing with. He then fishes out the switch hed off commlinks they salvaged from the guards and lieutenants.
"Their sec was better than anticipated, but not on our level, obvs. Couple of their guys prob coulda worked in our biz, cept for being such drek-sucking hoopholes. All tangos down, plus a couple of canines, and plenty of property damage. We got away clean, after a bit of a scuffle with the Pawns, but they didnt wanna tussle into Redmond."
Nomad allows the dwarf a moment to soak all that in, then flashes a smile just as brilliant back at her.
"Any particulars you looking for, or anything I missed out on?"
Lighting up her cigarette as Nomad tells his recall, the dwarf gives a charming smile back at Nomad, blowing the scent of weed in his direction. "That's my personal spin, here, but my best part of the trid is bound to be where he gets shot in the knee. Didn't expect that burkza to be there.", she laughs, shaking the machinegun on her shoulder. She clicks her tongue, a piercing clearly visible, at one of the orks, and he takes off the typewriter with a grunt. "What, are quills and parchment going out of fashion?", she shakes her head, before nodding. "Commlinks might need us to do some work.", she pouts, giving Nomad and the other two a long glance, before shrugging. "End of the day, a good deed's a good deed. Owe you a hit some point or another." She nods at the orks, then offers the joint to Nomad and the gang as she disappears behind the truck, hand on her ear.
The two orks seem to glance at you with blank faces, appraisal and approval in different measure, though you notice the massive bulges under their undone armour jackets. The dwarf appears to be on her comm for a couple of minutes, and she returns with a cheery grin on her face. "Well, boss is pretty happy, especially since I threw in a good word for ya.", she chirps, rustling through the pockets of her long leather coat to pull out three credsticks, two of them silver, but one of them glinting happily in gold. "Wasn't too happy about all the noise, but... We can spin this."
Your AR informs you that the golden credstick is loaded with 50,000 nuyen, one of the silver ones is carrying 20,000 and the other a nice even ten grand. Not bad for a night's work. "Should pay for a new suit, chummer.", she teases Nomad once again, before shifting the machinegun on her shoulder once again. "That us done, or are you surprising us with a drekhead in a dufflebag?"
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Wraith taps herself on the head, as if she forgot something important. "In a duffle bag! I'm sorry, did you want one? I TOTES could've made that happen. There was this one room where there was this one guy...and then the next room had these two guys.... NARF! I ex'd 'em pretty quick, but I could-a stuffed one in a bag had I known you wanted one.
Well, gosh, I feel mage-sour about that," she says, pouting. "Next time just make sure to speak up special an I'll cram one in, pinky swear.
Also, meh, noise. Anyone with that many goons-for-hire and one two-star WHORE is gonna need t' go down hard. You can't chop meat without turning on the industrial-grade chainsaw," she finishes with, as if that explains everything.
"Ha, good one. Tried to get Mr. Kneecap to come along while breathing, but he chose the high-velocity metal pill to swallow instead. No big loss there."
Nomad takes the preferred joint and sniffs it. Assuming it is cannabis (or bliss), he takes a couple of puffs and hands it back.
"Yeah, I'd prob keep those 'links offline til you can get your tech nerds in a null-'trix zone. Other than that, seems like our goals aligned quite nicely on this job. I gotta say, putting steel downrange on fellas what really deserve to be got, it feels good. Feelsgoodman, indeed."
Nomad looks to Freddy and the others, shrugging.
"You've got my number, or at least you've got Freddy's. You looking for more work done, stuff like this, or more quiet like too, give us a ring. I know were down for some Humanis drekhead stomping, and your nuyen definitely is good by me."
He smooths the front of his shrapnel damaged suit and straightens his scorched tie.
"Well, it's been a bit if a long night, and we should be on our way. Until next time, chummers."
He offers his hand to shake, before making to leave.
Sun breathes a silent sigh of relief as the payoff seems to go without a hitch. She keeps on edge until the goons leave and the group can then get down to the brass tacks of splitting the fee.
The dwarf chortles at Wraith, her studded eyebrow rising. "Sure thing, killer. Knew I had ya scanned right. Well, sometimes you need a scalpel, sometimes you need a chainsaw.", she adds as she takes her joint back from Nomad. "Here I was hoping for a personal contact. But, business first, you're right." She tosses the last part of the spliff on the ground, and meets Nomad's handshake with a firm, alloy fingers and a smile that's almost flirty. "Same with us, chummers. Hey, and as a personal thanks - If you got a question about the Underground, you call Righty here."
As all of you gather next to the drop spot, you find Freddy deep into his AR, his attention clearly elsewhere for a second. A cigarette is burning up on his hand. A moment later, he waves his hand in a rapid, jittery motion, clearly dismissing a substantial amount of open screens and AR apps. He glances at you, and a wide grin spreads on his face. "My guys!", he spreads his arms in the air, his eyes glancing at Nomad's pocket where the credsticks are. "All in all, couldn't have imagined it going better. Let's get the drek back in the sprawl, 'cause all the hard workers around here are givin' me the bother." With panache, the fixer puts the cigarette on his lips and disappears into his car.
The bar's once again lively, but the music pounding in the background repetitive, monotonous, but still alive. You gather in Freddy's ramshackle office, the fixer already waiting with a cold beer in his hand, and a cooler of other drinks are on the table. "Right, now, Kaffer, let's finish what we started.", he says in a surprisingly business tone. "I like to get a nice little intro to whatever I'm playing, so I'm gonna pass on some of my share, and just get 5 grand this time. Way I see it, you went above and beyond.", he laughs, before adding. "But I'm sure that's a habit that I'll drop."
He snaps his fingers at the credsticks, taking the small silver one and returning it a moment later. "I'd say spend it wisely, but I don't give a drek whatcha do with your money. As for the rest, well." He tosses up an AR screen and flicks through the channels. "Not sure how closely you follow the news, but your little escapade's made some noise. Horizon's keeping it hush, egal, but that Samuel pond-f~@~er's trid-log, the shitloads of weapons there, and one of you lovely grotbags' idea to spray an ork gang symbol's making the local crowd go ballistic." Freddy's eyes glance over Road-Rage for a moment, and the ork senses a flicker of approval. "So, there's going to be noise, the public's going to get nosy, and when the public gets nosy, we get rich." He breathes out, raising his beer to the roof. "To polite disagreements!"
Before they leave, Nomad flicks another digital card towards Righty.
"Biz first, fun second. Here's a personal 'link you can reach me on. Lemme know if ya wanna hang, or if you need someone spoken to. Euphemestically, or literally, ya scan?"
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Road-Rage keeps an overwatch from by the Titan as Nomad and the others shoot the drek with Righty.
Later when they rendezvous with Freddy he flashes a wry smile and matches the fixer's salute with a raise of his own soy-weiser.
When talk turns to the future, the hob rigger chimes in with a potential request to Freddy and the gang;
"After the pawns run-in, keen to make some mods to the Titan. Make it more a War-Wagon if you catch my drift omaes..."
He taps his scarred temple with a gloved hand, mulling over the options;
"Thinking of an MMG...An M202 or MAG-5 maybe... Nothing too brute, but something that will make them step off or step out. Anyone got the pipeline for ordinance?
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Alanna returns Freddy's toast with a cheesy grin of her own and a high raise of her bourbon-and-mostly-just-bourbon. "Chip-truth, chummer! A little polite disagreement never hurt nobody! Well, unless they hire me to show them the wrongness of their ways. Then, I guess, someone on that end is probs gonna get pained. ... To profits!" She drains her glass and orders another. She's getting wittier.
"Ya, RR, I got a chummy. Imrael. Hooked me up with some grade-A bang bang when I got on-scene. Might could find something. I'll ring."
She calls up Imrael's comm. --Hoi. You naked or drunk or both?--
Righty raises her (right) eyebrow at Nomad as the long word hits her ears, then laughs. "No doy, chummer.", she adds with a wink. A minute later, the van is gone, and one more later, your PAN pings with a message with an invite for a place called 'The Hole Below', and a single message 'Not a black tie event'.
Freddy grins at Road-Rage's suggestion for ordnance. "Alriight! Going full Wagner here, R-R." He takes a long drag from his cigarette. "There's a finder's fee, but I can call in the regulars. Bound to be some mercantile minded fans of symphonies of destruction.", he throws the peace sign with a smile, fully aware of the irony.
The comm seems to be unusually quiet for a good five minutes or so, until the message comes back, in the armourer's deep Caribbean voice.
--Just cooking up something spesh, so neither. But I could definitely be. Got scrip burning your pocket?
The local news cycle seems to buzz with the 'attack' on Bellevue's newest estate, and pundits, news anchors, tridblog personalities and conspriracy theorists of low to middling fame argue over the news. If everything on the Matrix is to be believed, it's been a gang attack, a vengeance killing, a new drug, a neighbourhood dispute, a heroic action by the just members of the Orkish underground and - according to a particularly vocal tridposter - an elaborate plot by a shadowy figure to drop prices in the area.
What it truly is, though, is a payday that's slowly starting to evaporate in new threads, talismans, repairs, or just the classic brandy and expensive tastes. So it's a relief when Freddy's message comes on your PAN's just as the murky pink Seattle sun sets onto the cold-gripped streets. The fixer's been quiet over the week, usually responding to messages with a single voice-only reply with uncharacteristic efficiency. This one, however, is much more reminiscent of the veneer of joyful chaos surrounding your fixer.
>>Hey, hey, chummers! The dark-gray economy's greatly appreciative of your contributions, just so you know. And, like I said - business is thriving, and we're getting some brand recognition! Just keep keepin' your pancakes away from the posters, and we're golden.Come by the Messer tomorrow afternoon for a double date with business, Kafer. Freddy, out!
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--Not me this time for once,--' she texts back at Imrael. --Got a chummer wants to put a big sausage on his ride. You cooking anything that big?--
Not knowing if Imrael is gonna get back to her, and not ready to call it a night, Wraith heads over to the Sweet Doomed Angel to get some work done....
"So the man goes to his and says, he says to her, he says, 'I'm going to this costume party, do ya wanna come?'
And she's all 'no no, you go' and he's all 'whatever, fine, Imma go as Mickey Mouse, so I gotta go get a costume. I'll be home late, don't wait up.'
Then the wife, she gets an idea. She's gonna go to the party, so she secretly goes and rents a Minnie Mouse costume, thinking she'll surprise her husband.
She puts on the costume, goes to the party, and finds Mickey Mouse.
The two have a grand time. He bought her, ah, much drink. And they laugh and the drink and they drink and they laugh. A good time is being had here, is what I'm sayin'.
So they go over to his car, and some, ah, 'activity' happens there. I not gonna tell you what, and don't try asking me about it I'll only deny it. But some activity happens, in his car, for a good long while.
So the next morning she gets up and she goes to her husband and she asks him, 'so, how was the party? Did anything, uh, fun happen?'
He says 'it was awful!' He says 'I couldn't find a Mickey Mouse costume. I had to go as Donald Duck!'
Thank you! You've been a lovely audience I was I had better jokes for you Good Night!"
That done she cleans up and heads home, finally ready to check her texts and call it a night.
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Blacksap downs a can of cold tea after packing his smaller arms in a small crate. Water, sweeteners and artificial flavoring, its basic taste hadn't changed since the 19th century. With his right hand he composed a message to Freddy.
Dear Freddie,
I thank you for the opportunity, both regarding the last job and the one that, I imagine, you are about to offer us. We have had a short relationship, but it was a profitable one. However, it has to come to an end.
It's nothing personal, of course. But since I've been in the shadows, I have been an enforcer and a shadowrunner and I have loathed the chaos and anarchy I found. I have always been a believer in the chain of command, behaving like a soldier and a professional and trusting your commilitons. I certainly didn't trust the Mob when I was in Boston, and I can't bring myself to trust the ragtag bunch of misfits that is the current shadowrunning team. They were effective, for certain, but unorganized, messy, chaotic. I couldn't anticipate their actions and work from them.
Which is likely not fault of their own. That attitude is likely to keep you alive when running the shadows. But it's not what I'm cut for.
I've reached out through some contacts to Macau, and I think that by greasing the right wheels I can get into Combat. Inc. I'm telling you this because I feel like I owe you a favor for getting me a place in Seattle: I don't think I'll have much clout anytime soon, but in the future I may be in the position to pay you back.
Shoot straight,
Blacksap
Nomad takes his time after the run to wind down and get his mind back into peacetime mode. A little cannabis, a nice bottle of scotch (synthetic, but aged) and some mindless trid shows really take the edge off nicely.
A couple of days after, he rings up Righty and invites her out for some fun. Having seen a "three-gun" competition on the trid while zoning out, he looked into local ranges and trainers m, right there in Seattle. He secured a slot of time, a shotgun and rifle rental, and met the dwarf for some good old fashioned high-velocity range therapy.
He certainly felt better after that, enough so to sign up for recurring lessons, and to put some nuyen down on some "competition" guns for his own use.
Selecting the Remington 990 shotgun, the Marlin X71, and a throwback Springfield M1A, with accessories and tool kits, both he and the range master smiled widely as he brought his purchases home.
<Sounds wiz, Freddy. Usual gang already coming, or do we need to scare up some fresh faces for the work?>
Sporting newly repaired and tailored clothing, Nomad slips his down-low gear into the pockets and holsters, then heads over to the meet.
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The burly hob flashes a grin at Freddy's enthusiasm for upping the panzer stakes on the Titan.
"Put the word out.... Wraith'll do the same. Let me know what falls from the Hi-Cal cloud eh omaes?"
Taking his leave he offers up a lift to anyone needing it, and a reminder of his own contacts;
"Got connections with Black Junk Yards in Carbonado. Anyone needin' wheels - two or more, I can pull some cables and shave some bottom-line lucre."
Road-Rage needed to bug out for a while after the run. Needed space… and more importantly needed to hit something or someone...
His Transys commlink pinged with a messag. He glanced at the handle - was from Laughing Dog, his super at Cascade Transit. Popping up the message to his internal HUD he read;
<Pick and go tomorrow Dangry. Totem statues to put the art in party. Should be all good under your hood. Will send coordinates tomorrow.>
The hob nodded to himself internally as he pulled the Titan into the lot of the rough hewn building.
Stepping out of the van Road-Rage inhaled the night air - the bittersweet scent of Puyallup making him grin.
Jacket hood up, his eyes dart to the lot, clocking some HD Scorpions, a beat-up Gopher and the usual mix and match of junkers all parked up.
Got numbers tonight. Sparring should be fun.
The stocky scrapper shuffles up to the squat hall - its LED sign reading ”Sticks & Stones" - its garish style more suited to some old-time pool hall than a street-fighting school.
Entering the heavy doors, Road-Rage’s grin widens as the atmosphere inside assails his senses; the heavy scent of sweat and the tang of blood. All around him Barren’s denizen’s train: MMA, boxing, knife fighters, nobodies, wannabes and legit tough guys.
His Commlink pings again as he drops his bag
<Dues due Champ. 100¥ for the month.>
Looking up he sees one of the coaches - a dwarf named Bricks beckon him over, and Road-Rage greets him with a nod;
”You up for more training or just keeping loose tonight Champ?”
Road-Rage flashes a jagged grin as he strips down to a vest and sweats;
”Every days a school day here Coach. You know me - keen to learn more to the 52 Blocks of tricks.”
Bricks nods, points to the stack of jump boxes - one of many designed to mimic terrain and the urban sprawl;
”That so? Well get your jail-bird ass up there… Got a little mustard called Pouncing Dragon that I think you’ll take to… You find yourself up high - gravity becomes your friend against a foe. Drop and bring the hammer down.”
Road-Rage nodded as he got to climbing; ”Dropping the hammer sounds meaner and more me.”
Scaling the box tower was easy - he’d been working on his fitness and balance . The hard part was mastering the skill and timing of the drop… but eventually he nailed it and his sparring partner.
By the end of the second week he’d nailed it (and several sparring partners) - his body had taken a pounding and he was 1,500¥ lighter + 1 months gym dues paid. Time, pain and money well spent...
Roughly half an hour after you sent the message to Freddy, a message in a similar format comes in.
[quote=Berlin Freddy[
Hey there Blacksap,
Nil sweat, chummer. Leaving is a thing you oughta do, and if you're doubting yourself in the shadows, that ain't a way to live. And about the chaos in anarchy - there's few that understand the change better than I do. Business is business, personal is personal.
But - we had a good run, man, you made me some scrip, I made you some scrip, and we didn't but heads, so I'm calling us even. And if you need a favour while in Macau and you're stuck, well, I'm sure I can find a way to help you help yourself in there.
And if the shadows come calling to you down there, and you need a ref - give old Freddy a call.
Frag the mage first,
Berlin Freddy.
A moment later, another file comes in on your PAN, a message of just three lines, a name, and address, and a number.
The familiar sound, smell, and other sensory inputs of Der Gute Messer rush into your receptors as you enter the bar once more. The familiar face of the your girl tending the bar greets you, then nods towards the office, beers in hand. You pass by the waves of aging corporate workers and odd-balls, and once again see yourself in Freddy's office, where the man's hanging an almost yellowed out poster of a band with barely legible text, the picture of a stylazed image of a troll swinging a guitar at a two-headed giant. "Alright, alright!", he claps his hands, plucking a half-finished cigarette from the ashtray. "First things first, chummers, I'm glad to see nobody's dead from partying too hard.", he laughs. Sitting down, he gestures to all of you to take a place around the table, as he brushes away a couple of burner 'links.
"Second thing on the menu is, Blacksap's decided you runner people are too rowdy, loudy, and prowdy for his, and he's kicked off. To somewhere. Suffice to say, if he ain't told you where he's going, I'm not spilling the heinz either. But there's little chance he'll be on the receiving end of your weapons, or you on his, and that's all that's happening." He shrugs, then lifts his bottle. "To him, and the rifle stock up his ass, all the best."
He snaps his fingers. "I'm already working on a replacement for him, so don't you worry. Or, if you don't like divvin' up your spoils, do worry.", he grins. "Seattle's starting to rustle, Kaffer, just like I told you. It's a seller's market out here, and you are damn good merchandise." He laughs.
"I got to talking with a couple of clients. Two of the Johnsons look fine. The third one gives me the jeebies, but she's promising a damn good payday." He shrugs. "Just under 'high enough to never intend to pay it' good. No reason we can't talk to all three, though." He sips his beer. "Just wanted you to make sure you select the right one first. Right. Behind Johnson #1,", he getures theatrically, "Guy looked corp. Wants a piece of hardware recovered from an office in Downtown. Pretty bog standard.", he shrugs. "Johnson #2 looked like a tough old broad, but I didn't quite smell corp on her. From what I gathered, it's some of the breaky-stealy situation, and she needs a hand. Not the most traditional of jobs, but she offered a percentage and an upfront, so I'd at least give her a listen."
His lips purse as he tucks his cigarette in the ashtray. "Third one was an elf, but not like...", he gestures at Glass and Sunset, "the hard-working elf. You'd imagine she got a wrinkle for every work out of her mouth, but I did get 'recovery of fragile cargo'." He pauses. "And 'six figures'."
The familiar waitress walks in, a set of massive outdated headphones on her ears, and drops by a plate of food and drinks, before disappearing once again. Freddy gives her a grin, then grabs a loose chip from the dirty table. "I say we wait for our new member, and consider which one we're going for first, omae."
"Well, hats and bottle caps off to our cranky long ranger. Hope hes profiting wherever he ends up."
Nomad takes a sip from his Soyweiser can and lifts it in a half salute.
"Personally, I'd prefer to keep a low profile on the next gig, but it probably wont hurt to check into most of these. The high nuyen one, that smacks of a screwiob waiting to happen. Dunno if I wanna tangle with that kinda trouble, chummers."
"Any chance these jobs might be doable, concurrently? If they're the same place or near enough, could be a smash and grab to divert attention from the sneaky work and we're getting paid twice. Just a pie in the sky idea, mind. No clue if that is really possible, so ka."
Nomad settles back into the torn up booth and relaxes around the team and Freddy.
"Picked up a little skill with a rifle recently, and some new high-caliber toys. Not to our former associates level, but should let me punch a bit harder if we gotta go loud."
"Fragile cargo suggests somebody getting cranky over breakages." Glass shrugs. "Might be more trouble than it's worth."
"Brings to mind people, Glass. I would rather not get involved in the meta human trafficking buz."
Road-Rage sips at his own Soyweiser listening intently. You clock some fresh bruises on the face only a mother could love...
"Elf could need a coyote... maybe Meta-Critter? Who knows... Bad enough having you lot cluttering up my wheels..."
His grumbles are washed away with another slug, before he shoots a toothy grin at Nomad;
"Punch harder? Funny that omae. I do too."
The burly hob chuckles to himself, then eyes Freddy and the gang;
"First job sounds vanilla - that ain't this crew. Blacksap had that right. We shown we good at breaking, so addin' stealin' to the menu just makes a hot sauce hotter. Lucky I like it spicy. Heh."
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Returning home one evening a week or so after her last run, Janie was surprised to find an old fashion envelope had been pushed under the door of her flat over the Double-Barrel Club. The letter inside was written by hand in the most interesting script. It was a blend of Sperethiel and English with a smattering of Or-Zet. It was obviously written specifically for her as these were languages which she was familiar. The letter invited her to a “Renton Shooting Club” located at the edge of the city in Upper Preston on I90. The letter went on to say a driver would be picking her up tomorrow morning to bring her to the club for “an interview”.
Intrigued, Janie prepared for the following day, and when the car arrived at 9am the next morning, she got in. The drive was uneventful and the driver, a human, knew nothing about where he was going or what was there…he had simply been hired to drive. It took a few hours to make it to the edge of the city and as they passed the small village of Preston, the car turned onto a dirt road leading into the Tiger Mountain State Forest. Not too far along the well-kept road a compound materialized from the wooded hills. Looking like an old hunting lodge from the last century, the stone and wood construction melding pleasingly into the wilderness background.
Getting out of the car, Janie was met by three people. The first was a native American woman dressed in, what she could only assume, was traditional clothes. The second was an male orc in a 3-piece business suit of exquisite design and the last was a human male in more casual clothes and a pistol on his hip in a western-trid like fashion. They introduced themselves as Black Willow, Edward Bartlet-Sumons and finally Doctor William Holiday. The three of them ran the ‘gun club’, but also belonged to a more serious and magically minded group who were interested in Descending Sunset becoming a member of their cabal. Not sure what to say, especially since they used her street name and seemed to know quite a lot about her, Sun instantly became wary…her hands drifting to her pistols. The trio quickly reassured her that they were genuine in their request and harbored no ill will towards her. Inside the magnificent building the three sat down to a delicious lunch and then moved to a more private den to talk.
All three were adapts and all three practitioners of gun-fu, as some called it. They had started the club after the three of them met at a gun show in the CAS. All three had worked, in one form or another, in the shadows, and still occasionally took commissions, but mostly spent their time honing the more mystical side of their trade. They kept feelers out in the shadows for possible up and coming runners who might benefit from their ‘club’. While the fee was minimal, other, more “tangible” forms of payment would be asked from the new member, including taking certain “jobs” for the group. The junior member could refuse, but if too many refusals were made, the group would most likely as them to leave. Currently there are 4 other “junior” members at the club.
After a tour of the facilities and another delicious meal, a car arrived to take her back to her apartment. She had agreed to join, and over the course of the following weeks, became an initiate within the group and opened up a whole new vista of possibilities for her future.
The door of Freddy's office and a human twenty-something girl on a motorized wheelchair (a Transys Steed drone, for the connoisseur) maneuvers for a moment to squeeze through the opening, until she comes to stop inside. The pilot has hair dyed sky blue, mildly Eastern European facial features, and is sporting a look of utter discomfort over cheap, outdated clothes. Her skin is pale from lack of sunlight, and her eyes are circled in black.
"Ah, Mister Berlin, hoi, hello-" she stammers, eyes darting to everyone of you and breathing heavily with social anxiety. "-and hello to you, ah, people, I mean, runners. Chummers? Sorry. Not too wiz in meatspace, what with the, the lights and my own static."
The new arrival takes a deep breath to steady herself. "I go by Sybil, and I'm a decker, as you may have glimpsed. Mister Berlin was on the lookout for a NetNerd aaaand if I don't fit the picture, then I don't know who does, fi. So, I guess this is a work interview and I don't think I'm making a good impression, sorry, but I swear, I'm smart..."
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As the conversation turns towards the mysterious job, Freddy seems slightly relieved when the mood of the room seems to turn against the word-tight elf. His gaze pauses for a moment on Wraith, as if he waits for her comment, and just as he lights another cigarette. "Sounds fuzz. I'll call Johnson #2 first." He lights up a cigarette, then locks his gaze with R-R. "Wheelman!", he opens a nearby crate, labeled almost comically 'XXXX', and pulls out a dufflebag that seems to almost send him bawling over. "Well, can't say it was easy, but nothing big and loud is.", he laughs, before pulling out a magnificent FN MAG-5. "Turns out, us Euros still do 'em better than the rest. That's ten from you, R-R, and I got you this as an extra." He draws out a 50-round mag, marked with the tell-tale steel-blue ribbon for APDS rounds.
As he's holding the magazine in one hand, and his cigarette in the other, the new arrival rolls in, and sheepishly makes her acquaintance. Freddy's mercantile smile flashes wider for a moment, as he lobs the magazine towards the ork, spreading his arms open wide. "Hey hey to you too, bluebird!", he greets, as he sits back down in his chair. "Just don't Mister me, man. Not into the whole...", he waves his hand in the air, "custom thing, man. We don't bite in here, and word on the street is you're a wiz string-slinger. Grab a beer and say hi to the gang, I'm already convinced." He leans back, shrugging.
"Make your meets, and I'll get our Miss Johnson in tomorrow."
Sun is intrigued by the possibility of working for an elf.
"Could you tell where she was from by her accent? Do you still have the recording? Could I take a listen to see if I can pick up the possible nationality of this Miss Johnson?"
Once finished talking to Freddy about the elf Johnson, she goes over and introduces herself to their new decker.
"Hey Sybil, I'm Descending Sunset, but just call me Sun...all the others do! Glad to have you on the team! We can really use a matrix presence for this team... it's the one thing we were missing!"
Glass raises his drink toward the decker.
"Chill, chummer. You're gonna strip some gears, you carry on at that speed. Name's Glass."
Sybil forces a nervous smile, ignoring the beers. "Yes, I'd heard so, and I'm quite, quite more at home in cyber than in person. Do you have a van, or a truck that I can work from? I'm not exactly firefight material."
She raps on the wheelchair's frame with a wistful smile.
The hob wheelman catches with mag with a wicked grin, then moves eagerly towards the duffle bag with his apelike gait. Faced with the potential of a new toy for his Titan, the rigger barely registers the new arrival.
Road-Rage pats the duffle affectionately, then passing a credstik to their fixer;
"10K. Grade A and a nice price... Avhankuk Freddy."
As the others address Sybil, he looks up with a nod;
"Nice wheels Blue. I'm Road-Rage."
He jabs one of his driving gloved hands towards the parking lot outside;
"Titan out there is my wagon. Mi casa es su casa."
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Wraith just could not look up from her comm this whole time, her thumbs busily flying away at...something. A concert of emotions from depression to elation play on her face, but eventually she finds reason to pause the pretty colors and look up. "Huh? What? We got a nerd now? Hoi bithead, I'm Wraith, I'm a bag-n-tag generator."
She looks back down at her comm. "Yeah yeah, brake in, take things that don't belong to us, go give to someone else. Wizard."
Her comm sorta sounds like she's driving a truck.
Nomad raises his beer at the newcomer.
"Hi, chummer. Mamet's Nomad, I do most of the talking and lying around here, ideally help to jack the J's payscale up for us too. Glad to have some 'trix support, I'm sure you'll do fine."
Raising an eyebrow at RoadRage's new purchase, he nods at the big man.
"Not in the mood to be outgunned again, eh? I approve, wholeheartedly."
Road-Rage flashes a jagged smile toward Nomad;
"A1 Chummer. We hobs don't back down from a scrap."
He stows the magazine and hefts the duffle-bag and its payload;
"Hope this run will pay for the mounting for this bad-boi."
Sybil relaxes a bit. "Ah, you're the wheelsman, Road-Rage? Wiz, let me have a couple of marks on your iron and I'll see that you don't get blind-sided by another decker. Nomad, glad to know we have a smooth-talker, I couldn't lie to save my backside. Whatcha playin', razorgirl? I'd offer a match but I'm a serial cheater."
As Sunset raises her accent question, Freddy shrugs. "Sounded fairly local to me, man. Could've been fake, could've been a lady from around the corner." He chuckles. "And it's not like I'm a native speaker, Kaffer.", he adds with a shrug. As the conversation turns towards meeting the new crewmember, Freddy waves. "Alright! Help yourselves to the booze, it's going bad in a week anyway. I'm off to give our bandit gal a call.", he nods, booting up his AR and disappearing through the door.
Half an hour later, he reappears, a hand-rolled cigarette perched on his lip. "Alright! Hope you don't got any gigs tomorrow, 'cause we're going to meet our Johnson!", he shouts. "Meeting's at 8 tomorrow at Tonya's, just 'round the bend.", he nods.
Tonya's is a small, dusty diner, favoured by non-corp affiliated cargo riggers - for documented and undocumented cargo alike. Nothing more than a greasy spoon with an above-average soy extruder, it's known for its great Matrix reception and patrons with incredibly selective hearing. It's just off the Interstate in Tacoma.
[ooc]January 13, 2076: 19:51 - Seattle, Tonya's.
It's rare that Road-Rage's car feels small, but it's nevertheless the case as he pulls the Titan into the carpark of Tonya's. The carpark, a dilapidated clearing, standing on the remains of a long-demolished building from a long extinct corporation, lacks even asphalt on the ground. The ice-snapped ground is covered in frozen tire-tracks, the largest big enough for a Ford Americar to sink into.
The carpark is mostly empty, save for a few trucks, dust, snow and soot covering their towering frames, each tire taller than an average human. Road-Rage drives the Titan next to a Mostrans Minsk, the Soviet workhorse more than capable of dealing with the snow, and parks right next to Freddy's snow-covered car.
The smell of sugary syrup, fried bacon and almost-real coffee permeates the air, with a heavy layer of cheap tobacco carrying over to the door, eager to escape to the evening cold. The few patrons inside quietly snore, nurse plates rich enough to overfeed a troll, or simply lean back on the faux red leather couches to rest.
>>Around the bar.
Your commlinks ping as you enter, and as soon as the tired, wispy old dwarf at the bar sees you, he nods around. If anyone else saw you, they didn't show it. Around the bar, an uncharacteristically tamely dressed Freddy is sitting across a table from a human. Seemingly in her late fourties, with an unfashionable streak of gray in her hair, she's dressed in a thick brown leather coat. She's grabbing a large mug of black liquid in a metal hand. A large pistol is clearly visible on her as she stands up, and Freddy turns around to greet you with an impenetrable gaze. [b]"Evening, Kafer. Say hi to Miss Johnson.", he says, nodding for you to sit around. The woman's eyes glare over the team, seemingly stopping with curiosity at Sybil, and locking for a moment too long with Sunset, before moving away. "Evenin' folks. Heard y'all are just what I need.", she says with a deep Southern accent.
You can't remember where, you can't remember how, you can't remember if it was even in person. But you've definitely seen that woman's face before.
"You know, RoadRage, probably quite a few fellow gearheads in this place. Might be worth making some friends."
Nomad gives the place a once over, feeling very overdressed in his suit and overcoat, if grateful for the heavy outer layers warmth. Hes also glad for the new cases of long arms and ammunition now stowed in the Titan.
"Miss Johnson, a pleasure. I believe we can be of great utility to one another. Shall we sit?"
Nomad orders up a black soykaf and slides into the booth across from the J.
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When Sybil asks about Wraith's game, she looks up and says, "Road of the Dead. I just can NOT stop playing this thing. Can I tell you why I can't not play it? No. And can I not play it? Also, no. I just know that this the the nova-hottest thing I've ever seen an' I gots to not lay off it."
Later, at Tonya's, Alanna makes curt nods by way of introduction...until she sees the food. "Ooooo! Can I have one of the troll-chokers? That has -got- to be the name of that thing yeah yeah yeah?" she says, pointing to one of the over-laden plates.
She sits and acts like she'll forever wait patiently for her order...for at least a few seconds.
Sybil fidgets in her wheelchair as the woman looks over her. She doesn't say a word, hoping that Nomad will handle the situation and she will be back in cyberspace as soon as possible.
Why do we have to meet in person? I could have stayed back and hitched a ride on a commlink. Stupid obsolete meatspace social norms.
The dwarf's yellow, tobacco-stained moustache shuffles up as Wraith states her order, then nods. "I'll bring it over.", he responds in a deep, gravelly voice, as if he rarely speaks, and he takes out a plastic-wrapped package from just below him, unwraps it with trained precision, and dumps what seems to be a pound-and-a-half of off-brane kelp-bacon into a deep frier.
At the table, Ms. Johnson greets Nomad with a firm handshake, then gestures to the seats. "Be my guest, hon." She reaches into a deep pocket of her coat, pulling out a packet of undoubtedly contraband cigarettes, and throws the pack on the table. Exhaling, she nods at Freddy, who nods in return, his face still a stony mask. "Well, reckon I'd start with the pitch.", she says, her metal fingers dancing around the rim of her mug. "There's a couple of things here that might be sittin' a bit unusual for y'all, and it might be the reason why your fixer here's been awful quiet."
"I've been plannin' a thing for a while now, but, sparin' ya the deets, I've been recently left short-handed.", she shrugs, then nods at her mug in silence for a brief moment. "Which is why I asked your fixer here to arrange for this meet. He told me y'got a wiz, wheels an' wit, so we oughta be dandy." An aged Aztechnology Camarero drone, a quietly hovering waiter drone zips by the table and deposits your food with a thud, then zips away as quickly as it arrives. Despite the food's subpar colour, the smell is mouth-watering.
"You enjoy that, sugar.", she smiles, before continuing. "As I was sayin'. I've got the plan for a set of smash-n-grabs in a High response area. I've only some butt'ns to give you upfront, and then we split the loot. Y'all can get 60%, I get the other 40." She glances at you. "Y'all got until morning noon to tell me if you're game, and then I'll give you the deets."
Freddy puts his fingers on the table and a palm on his hand, seemingly in through. He raises his eyebrows at you, with curiousity.
Janie racks her brain to think of where she has seen this woman before....
Sybil keeps her mouth shut, though her mind is anything but. With a mental command to her datajack, she focuses on her AR overview and conjures up a quick ARO message, privacy-set to share only with Freddy.
There's not much unusual in her words, what's got your tongue? Are we getting hosed?
"That's a very pretty accent...I can not seem to place it?? Where in the CAS do you hail Ms. Johnson??"
Sun concentrates on the woman and all her gear...maybe it is something she is wearing that has triggered her memory...
"Not got a problem with the idea of a little unofficial self-service, but High Response types tend to complain. Loudly. Sorting that out can get pricey."
>>Johnson is a runner. No promise of pay. Sub-contracting. Unorthodoxx. Though I haven't clocked her. Up to you. Relay to rest.
Freddy's eyes glaze for a moment, as he stares into the distance. Ms. Johnson's teeth flash for a moment when Sunset asks her a question. "Now ain't you sweet. Though, I'm from Tennessee, UCAS-side." Freddy seemingly holds down a scoff. The woman's wearing a standard drag brown leather coat over a surplus security vest, and as she turns towards Glass, Susnet's eyes close up onto the woman's cybernetic hand, wrapped around her coffee mug.
The cybernetic, even if it isn't something an Awakened would pay much heed too, is a model that's very popular amongst gunslingers and pistoliers - A Lone Star Sharpshooter. Though it's out for civilian use, you remember a few of your colleagues getting significant discounts for the model - and showed it off in the firing range, roughly one lifetime ago.
Turning to Glass, she continues. "I scan you, sugar. Hencewhy, I'm offerin' a 'just in case' payment, and a damn large piece o' the pie. If we make the plan and follow it, we'd be in and out. Y'all won't even need to fire a gun. Bullets are hella pricy 'round these parts.
"So what I scan is this: you have some targets lined up and the means to export the cargo. You need our help in securing said cargo and making sure all our people get outta dodge when the smoke clears. 60% sounds kinda nice, but we gotta know what the big number is gonna look like before we say yes. We talking 5 figures, maybe 6? Cuz if it's less than that, the danger doesn't really seem worth thenrisk."
Nomad sips his soykaf and looks the Johnson in the eye, keeping his cool demeanor.
"Say, you mind if I bum a smoke?"
Barring objections, he slides a cigarette out and lights it up at the table.
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Wraith begins a methodical murder of her KelpOBaca while musing what the broad said. "Doesn't sound too granite. Most often smashy-smashy can be easier than the grabby, especially as we got a super-fly bit-jockey," Wraith raises a full fork in Sybil's direction, making her the center of attention for a bit. "But Imma go with the Gnome Ad, 'secure' could be someone's house, or could be the Renraku Arcology. Null persp former, no dice latter."
She consumes said fork and chews with gusto.