George St. Cloud's page

George waits a few minutes after Shade arrives, then beams a tightwave, encrypted package to each of your commlinks. After a brief flurry of handshakes, passcodes, and identification, a small video file pops up on your 'link.

St. Cloud's face displays in mid-res trid via your commlink's screen, your personal display 'ware, or however you have your gear rigged.

"All right, gilettes, listen up. Mr. Johnson is in need of your services for a retrieval job. This is a bit time-sensitive, which is why you lot are getting tapped, green as you are. This is as much an audition for bigger jobs as it creds in your pocket, savvy? Meet's tonight at 2100, at Infinity. Tell the elf bartender chica you're there for the Johnson party, and she'll get you into one of the private conference rooms. And dress nice, willya." The obviously recorded message terminates, then automatically deletes itself after a brief delay. A short addendum carries over to some of you personally.

Salazar:

Shade:

George's face pops up again after a short pause. "There was supposed to be another with you five, seems he's running late. He shows up, I might patch him in. Then again, maybe not. Look for him at the club, and watch your backs." The whole interaction takes maybe a minute or two, all the while St. Cloud filled drink orders, cleaned up, and tended bar as if nothing out of the ordinary transpired.

You've got a place and time (and about 3 hours before 2100), what do you do?

Welcome to Seattle in 2070, chummer. Specifically, welcome to Micky's Place, a known runner's bar in the Redmond Barrens. You'd heard of this place through the grapevine, heck you may have even stopped in for a drink before. However, this is the first time you got a call from George St. Cloud the owner, saying he might some work for you. He didn't provide specifics, just a hint of nuyen and the address to the bar.

"This town will eat you up and spit you out without even noticin', if you let it, kid. I know you think you're shiny-wiz with toys, spells, cars, or whathaveyou, but hear me well: there's always someone bigger, faster, meaner, and with better intel out there. Sometimes he's even gunning specifically for you, natch? George stands behind the old, scarred, wooden bar. Real wood, too, even if its patched here and there with synthetics. Polishing a glass with slow, exaggerated moves, he fixes you with a piercing gaze. "If you're sure about this, then yeah, maybe I got some work to slide your way. I'll even take my fee as a favor for the future, chummer. I'll send the details to your 'link shortly.

Inside Micky's Place, the slow thud of heavy bass pounds the room. Early in the evening, only a few blue-collar workers sit at the bar, draining glasses of synth-beer and grousing about the Seahawks. Micky's trideo setup over the corner of the bar shows highlights of the 'Hawks embarrassing loss from last night in between ads and other sports clips.

A couple of slim, skirt-wearing waitresses mosey around, carrying trays of drinks. Their PANs broadcast several "off-menu" options available. Everything for a price, right.

A handful of folks stand or sit around the perimeter of the room, sticking to the dimly lit corners and booths either by design or inattention. AROs crop up from time to time, as the patrons engage wirelessly for biz, love, or fun.