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[SR5] Unprofessional Criminals [IC]
Leper
Registered User regular
Registered User regular
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If my role play is hindered by rolling to play, then I'd prefer the rolls play right, instead of steam-rolling play-night.
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"Look, I owe this guy and you owe me... so today I'm cutting out the middle man and you owe this guy. Before you rattle off about how you don't owe me, I'm about to put you on a job, so you owe me even if you didn't before.
"Buddy o' mine is gonna be at a joint called 'Banana Jax' around noon--lunch buffet. Round up a couple folks who don't mind some day labor and head that way--I'll get you started with a couple names. Once youre there, look for the guy eating lo mein. He's an all right sort, but in a bit of a pickle--not in his usual spot or with the usual crowd so he's going to be twitchy. 'Do what you gotta do to take care of you,' and all that drek, but cut the guy some slack if you can.
"Gonna be busy for a couple days--I'll let you know where I'm back.
"Oh! AI almost forgot: be careful what you pick up there. Wednesday at noon ain't the A-Team."
And (aside from a few contacts and an address at the bottom) that was it. No preface, no personalization, not even a real greeting. The message was flagged as URGENT and marked for delivery confirmation, but there wasn't much else to it. Unusual, especially for the generally loquacious Solomon.
The rain had rolled in from the Pacific about ten o'clock, and didn't seem to be in any hurry to move along. The initial torrential downpours had at least subsided into showers of big, fat droplets of unusually clean precipitation, washing away the less ambulatory filth from the streets.
The site didn't seem like much from the outside. There was no signage, no neon, only a glaring red light by the doorway: nothing to hint it was even open to the public, or even habitable, save the muted, rhythmic thumps of whatever bass could rattle its way through the walls.
Entry answered everything. Brightly lit neon surrounded multiple postings of local statutes and regulations, with lockboxes lining the wall for a weapons check, conspicuously enforced by a pair of sizeable humans sporting barely-concealed chrome and small arsenals under cheap suits. The music was clearer, of course, and loud, but comfortable.
The main stage is empty, but table-top trideo units feature "dancers" of every variety, and barely clad waitresses circulate between the booths and tables to flirt and collect drink orders. Hallways in the back lead (so the signage suggests) to simsense beds and whatever might pass for V.I.P. lounges in this place. The advertised buffet is certainly nothing to write home about, consisting mostly of prepackaged food shoved unceremoniously under heat lamps, and notably lacking in any sort of Chinese cuisine, which makes spotting the Johnson less problematic.
In one of the back corner booths sits an orc wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and black cargo pants, alternately hunched over one of several paper take-out boxes, shoveling it into his mouth with chopsticks, or pausing to ogle his automated table dancer.
"Oh! Right, yeah." She holds her pistol by the barrel and he takes it carefully. "Don't let anyone touch that, okay? It's my favorite gun." He nods curtly, and puts it in a top-shelf bin, handing her the key a moment later. Jenna tucks it into her breast pocket, and finds a sturdy wall to lean against and watch the Johnson, trying and failing to look casual. She doesn't want to be the first one to approach.
Scanning the room quickly, Block purses his lips into something halfway between a smile and a grimace as he notes the ork in the back corner. Block's eyes settle on Jenna a moment later, and his pupils dart around for a few seconds as he checks something in AR. He clears his throat softly as he approaches her.
In a fairly quiet voice, he says, "Goblin said you might beat the rest of us here. I'm Block." The dwarf offers a handshake, reaching out and up.
He spots Block introducing himself to a tough-looking human woman and avoids moving over just yet, letting the surprisingly loquacious dwarf break the ice. While being the face came easily to Kaspar, he preferred to let Block break the ice today. The dwarf had been working on his social niceties and Kaspar was in no rush to draw a lot of attention to the rest of the team Solomon had cobbled together. Besides, if this was the right woman, she was a friend of a friend of Block's. He'd get over to them shortly.
He also spotted the 1980s exile ork shoveling takeout and made him for their contact almost immediately. While he respected his fashion choices, he also thought the shirt was a tremendously amateur choice at this sort of meeting and began to suspect that Solomon's friend's problems were much deeper than Solomon might suspect.
He turned his attention back to Block and the woman, taking note of the fact Block had spotted him. Kaspar wasn't trying to hide, which meant that his more than two meter frame was easy to spot. He meandered toward the dwarf, waiting for Block to call him over.
The bouncer almost didn't notice Alex approach. From where he stood, there was a sea of faces passing by, then suddenly one was before him, looking expectantly. Alex suppressed a grin. He wasn't invisible, but it amazed him how often people seemed to simply ignore him. People told him it's because he looks generic, but Alex always thought it is because he tries to appear non-threatening. Non-interesting. Someone else's problem.
"Uh, anything to store?" the bouncer mutters. "Only this." Alex hands the brute a knife, sheathed and harnessed. The big meathead looks at Alex sceptically. "Really... only that?". Alex shrugs. "Not my thing."
A quick pad down to be safe and he was in. A quiet, discreet lap around the place and all was set. Alex found a piece of wall a couple of meters from Jenna and leans against it. She was fixated on the orc in the back. Soon, maybe, she and Block might even realise he has arrived.
Pausing to let a large truck pass, and to quickly fire off an armor spell for protection, she double checked that her comlink was broadcasting the correct fake SIN. As far as anyone else could tell, Brooke Thompson slipped through the alley and into the nondescript door.
"No weapons."
Taisia held up her palms. "None on me."
Submitting to a quick pat down, the guards seemed satisfied. Occasionally Zen would carry a piece, for emergencies, but her mind was a stronger weapon then anything she could get her hands on. When you sling mojo, if you ever found yourself needing a gun, then it was probably already too late.
Stepping into the dark room, her sight instinctively shifted back to the astral plane. She looked around the room, quickly finding Block's familiar aura. She paused to check for anything else of interest.
- and if I need it: Assensing + Intuition (8d6=24) - 3 hits, 3 1's
Our intrepid band has a few moments to talk amongst themselves before they're noticed. The orc glances between the group and his pocket secretary before waving them over with a broad smile. He does his best to beckon a waitress before launching into his pitch, his voice sounding vaguely of Jersey and about half an octave higher than one might expect. "Ah, our happy couple," he exclaims, without really indicating who he might be talking to. "And you brought friends! That's wonderful, just fabulous--let's get you some drinks and we'll go talk catering. I brought samples!"
He motions to the waitress and instructs her in a stage whisper, "For the love of God, sweetie, get these people liquored up in hurry. I'm not planning a funeral here." The orc offers you all a wink befor he he pauses for a moment to pop a stick of gum and makes the rounds among you, doing his best to shake hands exuberantly and introduce himself as 'Maury,' and pass out vague compliments on various fashion choices. The drinks can't arrive soon enough.
At least 'Maury' has done one useful thing so far - booze. While the trids painted clandestine runners as grim, solemn professionals (which wasn't true), 'Maury's exuberance was on the opposite end of the unlikely scale, and probably equally bullshit. Being a guest at this party, Alex waited for the introductions. He hoped they would happen shortly, so he could take a seat.
After the handshake, Alex took out a tiny notebook and pencil and moved to Maury's peripheral vision. It probably wasn't going to be boring...
"Oh, absolutely. Thanks so much for setting this up, Maury. Rush weddings are so stressful." The Elf pays attention to the Ork's responses to his "inane" chatter. "I was just telling Jaykay that I was going to have my hands full doing the tailoring and he said 'Let's go see Maury.' Which I think was a fantastic suggestion, since you know all the right problem solvers. So lay it out for us, big guy, you've seen the plans, what do we need to do to get this bird off the ground?"
While acting isn't really his forte, Kaspar is no slouch. He appropriates the demeanor of an Elven district tailor with an almost imperceptible shift in his carriage and mannerisms. The fact that he's actually wearing an antiquated three-piece suit certainly doesn't hurt the performance.
He gathers up as many of the takeout boxes as he can hold, leaving a few on the table (which he admonished you to gather up) and heads for the V.I.P. lounges. He juggles some noodles for a moment as he fumbles for a credstick to access one marked unoccupied before ushering everyone in. The room is a bit on the small side, with barely enough room for another circular booth and a small stage covered in garish leopard-print padding. At least the background noise is a bit more muted. He takes a moment to bump the door closed with a hip and check the seal before continuing to run his mouth a mile a minute.
"Now I know you mentioned nyotaimori--very progressive by the way--in place of the groom's cake, but I just don't think we can accommodate that and stay within the budget you mentioned," he begins as he takes a minute to set down the boxes and pull a few instruments from the pockets of his cargo pants. "So I took the liberty of trying for something a bit more modest, because--and let's get real for a moment here--you might remember the cake, but no one remembers dinner, no matter how good it is. You can't exactly freeze dry this crap and hang it on the wall. Put your money into the flash and glitter, babydoll. You at least get trid of that." He waves a few in the direction of the group, furrowing his brow briefly and giving more than a few of you a look that seems to say 'what, really?' before shrugging and moving about the rest of the room unperturbed. "Seriously, though, this stuff is good, and it comes with a story."
"It's all from a little place out in Touristville--and don't let that throw you off--it's good. Run by a nice little family. Orcs, every one, and Jewish. I don't know if they're good Jews--I mean you can't make mu shu pork like that (soy or not!) and keep kosher. Amazing sense of humor though--oppressed people tend to be funnier, I find," He works his way back to the table and takes a moment to pull the gum from his mouth and deposit it carefully underneath, smearing it over what might appear to the casual observer to be just another rivet, before stowing his gear once again. "They're trying to do a little bit more catering and a little bit less restauranteuring these days, which puts you in a spot to get a hell of a bargain."
"Seems that insurance premiums and security fees in the area are just killing them on the overhead, and they don't want to move, but they can't keep the doors open at that cost, you see. So... catering! Don't mind if I smoke, do you? God I love some carcinogens after lo mein," he continues, not bothering to actually smoke--although those of you near the table might recognize the faint smell of ozone and acrid chemicals from overloading electronics.
"Thoughts?"
>I know you're running an agent search for nearby Matrix activity, Block.
>Could you also throw an agent on 'Maury' and see what pops?
"Jewish orks? Maury, are you getting these people from central casting? Nothing amuses me more than Momma R'Ork on Keep It Underground. She's a real tough customer. I wouldn't want to go anywhere near her without being well-armed and, well, we do better with subtlety." The elf shifts in his seat momentarily to produce an old-fashioned scratchbook. He opens it up, skipping over dozens of pages filled with what appear to be lyrics before getting to a clean one and scribbling some notes with a graphite nub.
"Now Touristville, that's the part that's supposed to be safe, right? No gangs? Don't the locals police that sort of thing? I would hate for our bridegroom and bride to get geeked right before their wedding. Looks bad, you know." Kaspar leaned back into the booth. Have to admire this ork's doublespeak. He's a real pro. Whatever Solomon intended, this is probably going to be a good stepping stone for us, even if it means going into the Barrens.
"Your offer is certainly tempting," he says, handing the scratchbook to Block, indicating that he should pass it around when he's done with it. It reads: Orks being muscled in protection racket, Maury wants us to alleviate the pressure. Details later. When the scratchbook comes back around to Kaspar he closes it and secures it inside his suit jacket. "Give us a moment to make up our minds, yeah?"
touristville, orks and protection hustlers, sounds like a stroll down memory lane for at least a couple of us
Block closes his eyes and sighs quietly for an instant after sending the text, then tunes back into the matter at hand, watching Kaspar do his thing.
Content to let the smooth talkers speak, she quickly switches to her astral view, calling forth her bound water spirit.
"Yes?" came the bored reply in her head.
"Just preparing," Zen thought to the spirit, "might need you to check something out for me."
"Ah. Such a complex and interesting objective. 'Checking something out'." The sarcasm soaked reply made Zen question her decision. Goddamn Spirits.
The "flyer" is folded around a credstick and contains a sets of coordinates--from the looks of things it's further into the barrens that what would traditionally be considered the Touristville area--and a handwritten note in block script: quiet & untraceable, but messy and scary. NO MORE ISSUES. Further down in tiny print the words ASPYRE MEDIA FLASH PAPER are just barely visible.
"I forgot my binder with all the decoration samples, so we'll have to do that next time--when's good for you? Tomorrow evening?"
>That's 3000¥ plus salvage per head. Possibly a bonus.
>Plus we get to help out some nice ork entrepreneurs, so it's feel good.
>No mistake: we'll be in the real Barrens. Wear something appropriate.
"I get it, Maury. Everyone's strapped. Okay, I think we're in agreement here. Maybe Renton would be better?"
Unless someone's got a better place in mind?
The rain still hadn't made its way out of the city--but then, who expected it would anytime soon? The weather feeds couldn't even be bothered to agree. Clear skies by evening, continuous rain for the next week, scattered showers followed by hail--SeaWeaD (an upstart microcorp trying to corner the market on weather prognostication) briefly announced ">>>>and Lo, the sky shall rain forth cattle upon the heads of the weary, and all shall smell of obscure fruit and licorice!" before noting they were experiencing technical difficulties and going silent.
The weather hadn't done much to blunt the appetites in Renton, and Wanda's Witchery was a little more packed than one might expect for the "after lunch crowd," although the patrons on this particular early afternoon seem to lean more heavily towards 'filthy, dirty, hippy shamans.' (If you were going to be all judgemental and arcan-ist about it.)
"Alright, we better get going then" he said to noone in particular. He walked out of the booth and into the main floor of the Banana Jax. One last look around he thought. Making his way through, Alex suddenly slipped into obscurity and found a place to watch the patrons. If 'Maury' was physically followed, they might show themselves.
Switching his commlink back on, Alex read through the group's AR channel messages; and then messaged Block
> Be there in a couple of hours. Getting some groundwork in.
After 30 minutes, Alex left the Jax. Checking around for ID scanners, ensuring he was in an obscure enough place, he flipped the commlink to his real SIN, stretched his neck and got his thoughts together. Then dialed.
A video response was requested and accepted.
"Sgt. Lineus!"
"Alex! How are you?"
"Been alright, keeping busy..."
"Is that right?" Lineus Cochrane - one of Alex' friends from local law enforcement; Lone Star, KE, Alex never really cared to find out. "How busy?"
"Well, ok... not that busy since..." Alex trailed off and rolled his eyes. Lineus' face winced a little. "But, it's actually why I'm calling. Some work came up way out in the Barrens. Small corp is looking for a site... eh, you know the deal. Local checkout. Can you scrape some basic info for me? Things I need to look out for?"
"Like what? You know I won't send you official files."
"Not asking for official files. You know my job though - get info, do it, then it drains from thought. You've been around for a while. Surely..."
A short pause. "Yeah, I'll see what I can do... How's that going anyway?"
"Surviving. Could be worse." Alex looked off-screen. "Look, real basic stuff - send it to me, alright? Eager to get started. We'll catch up later."
"Fine, I should get to it, too."
Session ended and Alex breathed deep, leaned against the wall and thought. Whoever that elf... the 'tailor' was that spoke to 'Maury', he was good. It was probably time to make the introductions. But first, he needed a few things. Alex switched his commlink back to silent, and merged with the crowd heading to his hideaway.
"If not, I will reach out to someone who is likely to have contacts in the Barrens."
Kaspar accepts a strange concoction of uncooked fish, melted cheese, and toast when it arrives and pulls off his AR glasses before eating it. He seems very happy with it, although it smells decidedly fishy.
Wanda's is a quiet, welcoming joint catering to a broad cross-section of ethnic groups and metahumanity. A handful of deals appear to be in negotiation at nearby tables, most likely for telesma or other magical services. Wanda's reputation as a hangout for the Awakened community in Renton was not really a secret, so there were a large helping of wannabes carefully seated in out-of-the-way tables where their furtive glances and gawping would go mostly unnoticed. A handful of rowdier sorts who probably came in from the Barrens for the food or possibly work are similarly segregated in the unobtrusive, barely noticeable way Wanda's does things. The bulk of the clientele are Renton locals, but mixed in with them are Talisar, downtown Awakened -- mostly Thaumaturgy and Magical Studies majors -- and some Tacoma stevedores who get and return a polite nod from Kaspar.