A voice message appears in your comlink’s readout. It’s from the small time fixer and fence you used to unload your loot to – Scott, the one that owns a pawn shop in Puyallup. It’s titled “Job offer – listen to when you’re somewhere secure.”

“Heya Spooky, I think I’ got something for you.” says Scott, his voice sightly obscured by the static of his cheap comlink. “Ever since you told me you where looking to move up into the real biz, I’ve put the word out. I finally got a bite. I got a Johnson in here yesterday that says he was looking for some ‘new’ but reliable talent. I think what he means is ‘cheap’ – but he’s paying more than the Halloweeners are likely to scrounge up any time soon. At any rate, it’s a step in the right direction if you’re serious about a career in the running biz.”

“I’ve only met the Johnson a few times, but he seems legit. Actually, legit’s not the word, he seems like ‘family’ if you catch my meaning – he just has that feel about him. He’s fenced a few things in my store before, but I don’t think he’s part of the family that runs Puyallup because I’ve never seen him around here on their monthly collections.”

“Well, whoever he is don’t matter I guess, the important thing is he’s got a job and the yen to pay for it. He wants you to meet him in a place up in Renton tomorrow afternoon. Call me back and I’ll give you the particulars if you’re interested.”

When you call him back, Scott gives you directions to a club located in the southern half of Renton, known as “Impish Delights.” He tells you the meet is to occur at 3 pm, and to ask for “Dirty Jimmy.”

You pass Spade on your way into the gang’s latest hangout. He says CB was looking for you about something. After you make your way down to the basement where he has his radio gear set up, he talks with you.

“Hey kiddo. You still serious about moving on to bigger and better things?”

“Well, I shudda known you were too good to run with the Knights forever. Just remember we’re still yer home and family when you’re a big famous shadowrunner, right?”

“What’s this about? Ah, sorry, I went all sentimental and I didn’t even tell you why. Word came in over the ether that there’s a small-time Johnson looking for a bit of new talent, and you fit the bill. It ain’t exactly the big leagues, but it’s a foot in the door for you. If this is still what you want – and hey, if anyone around here deserves it, you do – then go meet your new employer tomorrow afternoon. He’ll be in a club called “Impish Delights,” and he says to ask for “Dirty Jimmy. 3 o’clock.”

“Be careful out there, kiddo.

You get an encrypted call on your “business” comlink, and the number is one you recognize. You answer, and a window containing the toothy grin of Shara – the ork fixer who hooked you up with some of your gear – pops into your field of vision.

“Heya handsome” she says, before you’ve even kicked in the video feed. “I’ve got work for you. Looks like an entry-level job, but that means entry level pay. You still up for it?”

“Good” she says without even waiting for you to answer. “The Johnson says his name is Dirty Jimmy of all things. Wants you to meet him in the Impish Delights, over in Renton. I think it’s some sort of club, the type where girls dance for money instead of fun.”

“Let me know how it all works out, as I look forward to expanding our business relationship” she says with a devilish wink.

You find yourself trying to remember if Shara’s ever even seen you – because you are pretty sure that to date all your transactions have been over the ‘net. She must just be “biz friendly.”

After what you guess to be a sufficient laying-low period, you make contact with the bartender that Ben introduced you to – Beth was her name. You find her tending bar in the same high-class joint where you met her, her fair elven features contrasting the dark wood of the bar. Beth can’t contact Ben directly, but says she will leave word with Ben that you are looking for him.

Two days later, you get a com call. The number is obscured, and the call is heavily encrypted. You go through the identification protocol you invented for Ben (the one you never got around to sharing with your U.N. handlers.) He responds exactly as the protocol specifies.

“Snapp, is it really you? I heard you made it out of the agency, but I didn’t dare to hope until I saw your face. Wow, you look awful; you must just be squatting somewhere. I had to lay low too at first, so I understand. Don’t you worry though, we’ll get you out of that squat and in to some finer digs in no time.”

“In fact, that’s why I’m calling now. I’ve got some work to help get you back on your feet. I’ll be honest; it’s way below your qualifications. You probably haven’t had a job like this since your training days. But you’re on the outside now, which means as far as everyone here knows, you’re a nobody. And it wouldn’t do at all to tell them what your real qualifications are, lest the wrong ears listen! So we’ve got to start small, until you get a rep as your new identity.”

“Here are the details of your new job. The employer is a man named Dirty Jimmy – he’s a low-level mafia soldier; seems he has some personal problem for you to take care of. He’s meeting with you and a few other miscellaneous assets tomorrow at 15:00 local. The location is a small club called Impish Delights in Renton – it’s a middle class club whose main attraction is its dancing girls. I expect payment won’t be what you’re used to, but at least you’ll get to spend it now that you’re a private contractor.”

“Once you wow them with your talent, I’ll be able to hook you up with some of the bigger jobs around here – and before long you’ll be seeing payoffs as big as the old days. Except now you won’t have to turn them in to the evidence room when you’re done.”

“It’s still great to see you on the outside, Snapp.”

It’s been a quiet week. Actually, it’s been quiet a lot longer than that. You are beginning to wonder if it’s always been this quiet in this town, or if it just seems like it after all the dust-ups the past few years. There was the archeology, the election scandals, the mob infighting, that mess with the universal brotherhood… no wonder it seems so quiet now by comparison. At least, you’re happier with that thought than the potential alternative – that it’s only you that is having trouble finding work now. Fortunately, your com blips, interrupting that line of thought.

“Codger, Yao here. It’s been too long since we last spoke! Look, word on the street is you’re having a bit of a slow time. I think I can help, but you might not like it. I’ve gotten word of a job – a milk run really. No, its not like that last milk run. Don’t worry, that Johnson won’t be setting anyone else up like he did you, unless worms run the shadows. This one’s a real milk run – which means, of course the complications are up front rather than hidden.”

“In this case, the complications are that you’re being saddled with a whole new team – all fresh blood. I know, I know, the last thing you want to do is baby sit some cybered-up teenagers. But I have to tell you, I’ve had trouble finding anyone looking for your skills. The Johnsons, they don’t know anything. All they see is some street muscle that’s starting to bald. They don’t know that lasting that long on the streets means something. I know it and you know it, but that’s not enough sometimes.”

“So, I’m asking you to take this job. Frankly, aside from keeping the new kids in line, it’s not the type of work that calls for someone with your experience, but I’m still asking for two reasons. One, because it’ll get you out there again; it’ll get you some of that street rep back, and that’ll lead to more work. Better work, even – the kind you are used to. Second, we both know rent’s coming due, and you haven’t had work in a while. I know you had some cash stashed away, but after those medical bills in ’67, that new ‘ware in ’68, and that incident in ’69… well, just take the job, okay?”

“Oh, and Codger man, I’m sure glad you’re still out there running. And not just because it means one less competitor from the old days – it’s also just good to know there’s still some of us left out there after everything that’s gone down the last two decades.”

Impish Delights advertises themselves as a middle-class restaurant serving the best food with the best possible scenery. Though the words are never said, clever use of images makes clear what that scenery is: scantily clad -- but not naked -- dancing girls (and on Monday nights, men as well.) However, looking closer at the search results, you can see that the place isn’t just another run-down strip club dressed up as a place to buy food. It appears to actually be a restaurant designed to cater towards business meetings with a more casual attitude – a change of scenery from the droll and controlled cubicle style meeting rooms so common in corporate culture. After business hours, it becomes more of a place for the middle-class Renton residence to blow off a little steam after work, though there is no mention of things getting out of hand as so often happens at such places. Either the crowd at the Impish Delights is a bit more subdued, or the owners are very good at keeping incidents out of the headlines.

As a place that caters to business by day, there are back rooms available, with the usual anti-listening paraphernalia provided with some extra charge. Net chat room debate is divided as to whether or not anything else happens in those back rooms.

You don’t find much on the owner, a Mr. Mike Amherst. He owns one other establishment in Renton, a small sports bar called “Rookies.” Impish Delights is co-managed by an ork woman named Kerry McCoun. Business hours start at lunchtime and go into the wee hours.

After you accept (assuming you do), Yao sends you a text mail with the details of the meeting. The meeting place is some place called Impish Delights, and your employer goes by the name of Dirty Jimmy. The meet is scheduled for tomorrow at 15:00 hours.

A quick run down to the local mall, and you find what could pass as business-casual in a middle-class world. It has a light jacket, slacks, undershirt – but no tie. No need to over-do it, after all – it’s supposed to be a relaxed atmosphere. After paying the clerk the 100 yen, you return to your residence.

You head down into the lower room of the apartment, which you use as a meditation room. You spend a few minutes straightening up the miscellaneous accumulations of modern life that have made their way down here. The cleaning reminds you that if things work out, perhaps someday soon you won’t be crowded into a tiny apartment in Puyallup like this.

You look over the box of supplies from the talismonger, double-checking that everything is present. There will be time to set it up later, once the rituals have begun; but it is vital that nothing is absent or the binding will fail. Noting that everything is present (and good thing too, these kits are expensive!), you clear your mind and begin the process.

You close your eyes, and take a deep breath. You feel the air around you, the warmth of the candles you’ve lit, you hear the light patter of the rain outside, and you can smell the musty earth below. But none of these are what draws your attention now. Instead you focus your will through your body, and reach down – down through the apartment floor, down through the musty earth below, down and down into that darker domain of the soul. You reach out with your power, and a call goes out all around you. Then you linger for a timeless moment, halfway between a heartbeat and eternity in this quiet, dark place.

After this moment has passed, you feel your power touch something; a passing spirit from your mentor’s realm. You wrap your power around it, using your body as an anchor, to guide this unknown ancestor back to your world to serve as your guide. Energy courses through you as the spirit reaches towards your world.

Suddenly, the silence of the dark place is shattered by a rich, booming voice. "That one is not for you" commands the King from the throne of his eternal vigil over all things passed. As the voice reverberates through you, the link between worlds is shattered – for a split second you feel the spirit you contacted spiraling off into the darkness. But then you too are falling, flailing and falling….

*Thump* as your head hits the lightly carpeted floor in your meditation room. You lay several feet from where you had been meditating; the force of the failed attempt had lifted you off your feet and thrown you to the ground. There was a ringing in your ears, and you feel a trickle of blood down your nose. Normally, a failed summoning shouldn’t have hurt that way, you think to yourself. Just another mystery.

After taking a few moments to regain your composure, you head upstairs and pull your top of the line medkit out of its protective case. With its detailed readouts and the knowledge you’ve gained patching up your fellows on the streets, you’re able to stop the bleeding, and even the ringing in your ears. The back of your head is still sore from hitting the carpet, however. But the pain stops short of making you feel woozy.

You check the clock in the kitchenette. You’ve lost some time, but the twilight hours are still young. There is plenty of time for a second attempt. An early failure is disheartening; but the Dark King demands, above all things, patience. You will try again.

You return to your meditation room, checking that the candles are still lit. You again focus your mind and power through your body, and down into the depths. Again you send out your call, and a spirit answers – this time, one much closer. You link yourself to your body, your power practically crystallizing in its clarity of purpose. The spirit sings down this crystalline cord towards home; towards the material world.

You open your eyes, and before you drifts for all the world what appears an apparition; a spirit. It seems almost a ghost; a middle-aged woman of indeterminate race, dressed in somewhat tattered clothing of the type you’d expect to find on any small-business secretary. Behind the shifting form, you can just make out the dusty back wall of the room. You feel slightly dizzy, the calling was tiring despite the success. But the pain was not like before.

“What is it you require of me this night, traveler?”

“I will need your services beyond the rising of the sun.” you reply. “I will have to bind you to this world and to myself.”

The spirit nodded curtly. “I understand. But there will be a price; such are the rules set down by the Dark one who holds the throne and the key to the worlds. This you already know.”

You grimace slightly, hoping the price of the binding will be less painful than that of the first, failed, summoning. You bid the spirit to return to you at midnight to begin the ritual, and it fades out of sight silently. You return to your upstairs, and again set to work with the medkit. This time, the muscle soreness you feel is mostly untreatable by the device (aside from a slight dose of caffiene for the tiredness); though it recommends you put some ice on your still slightly aching head. You do so, feeling a small knot forming there. You lay down on the couch, relaxing and trying to rest for the upcoming ritual of binding.

You awake to find you have dozed off; and that it is nearly time for the spirit to return. You brush off your now wrinkled clothes, and stretch. You feel quite refreshed, though the lump on the back of your head is not yet diminished. Once more, you return to the lower room of the apartment, and re-light the candles.

The spirit appears, exactly as before, at the stroke of midnight. You then begin the ritual. First, you trace out on your floor the exacting and detailed symbols taught to you by the Dark King, one of his many secrets whispered to you from the underworld. Inside each symbol you place a special candle, or incense, as dictated by the rules of the ritual. As the clock nears3:00 AM, you complete the final symbol; this last one being drawn with human ash to bind the spirit of man to yourself – and likewise, you to it. At the completion of this last rune, and with a candle placed where its edges converge, you begin chanting the words that are more than words – the words of power and binding.

Power flows out around you chaotically, but is calmed and focused by the runes you have placed. The air hums and sings about you as your power weaves like threads through the shimmering form of the spirit, whose glow intensifies.

Suddenly, there is quiet. After the steadily building ringing of tension and power of the past several hours, the quiet is eerie in its stillness. The spirit remains before you, and you feel your link to her – at least the image appears to be a “her” – intensified and solidified.

“It is done.” She intones, imparting little emotion. “I can now return when called. Have you need of me now?”

“No, not tonight.” you reply. The ghostly image of the woman nods, and then departs this world for parts unknown and unknowable.

The ritual of binding was exhausting, but not much more so than the initial summoning. Still, best to get a full night’s sleep. You check your com, it reports the time as after 3 in the morning. Just another perk of working for yourself – getting to sleep in. You quickly put out the candles and incense, and kick the robo vacuum in the direction of the sand and ash runes. Then, you trudge off to bed to get the rest you’ll need before the meet tomorrow.

You wake, after the customary 8 hours, ready for breakfast. Or lunch, given the time. Your hand brushes the back of your head; you find that the knot from the night before is gone. It's a fresh day, full of possibilities.

Leaning back in your chair, your hands seem to strip, clean, check, and re-assemble your various weapons as if of their own volition; years of practice having reduced it to an unthinking (yet pleasant) task. This leaves your mind free to wander, and consider the players so far. Impish Delights – you don’t remember ever being there, but you do remember seeing signs for its construction. It was probably built in the last five years or so. Why yes, now you remember! It was constructed on the sight of another restaurant -- one that burned down during those months when the Mafia and the Yakuza were at each other’s throats.

The mob connection of the previous restaurant sets your mind down another path; another memory. You remember some shadowland posts from around the time the place was being constructed. The owner, he was in debt to the Mafia – or he was friendly with them; there seemed to be some disagreement between posters. Hard to tell which poster was right.

Dirty Jimmy doesn’t ring any bells though. Maybe he’s new, or minor, or from out of town. Or all three. Or maybe he’s just an old player who reinvented himself after the crash, like so many others. But that’s all just speculation at this point.

Despite your preconceptions about the place, Impish Delights advertises themselves as a middle-class restaurant serving the best food with the best possible scenery. Though the words are never said, clever use of images makes clear what that scenery is: scantily clad -- but not naked -- dancing girls (and on Monday nights, men as well.) Maybe you were right about it after all… However, looking closer at the digest of the search results you’ve obtained scouring the net, you can see that the place isn’t just another run-down strip club dressed up as a place to buy food. It appears to actually be a restaurant designed to cater towards business meetings with a more casual attitude – a change of scenery from the droll and controlled cubicle style meeting rooms so common in corporate culture. After business hours, it becomes more of a place for the middle-class Renton residence to blow off a little steam after work, though there is no mention of things getting out of hand as so often happens at such places. Either the crowd at the Impish Delights is a bit more subdued, or the owners are very good at keeping incidents out of the headlines. As you also don’t find many incidents of violence or the like reported in more casual sources such as blogs, you think it is most likely the later – the patrons are probably mostly middle-class and not willing to loose one of their few escapes from their real lives to some drunken foolishness. Not everyone is as comfortable with “virtual” escapism as you are, after all. Their loss.

As a place that caters to business by day, there are back rooms available, with the usual anti-listening paraphernalia provided with some extra charge. Net chat room debate is divided as to whether or not anything else happens in those back rooms.

You don’t find much on the owner, a Mr. Mike Amherst. He owns one other establishment in Renton, a small sports bar called “Rookies.” Impish Delights is co-managed by an ork woman named Kerry McCoun. You do, however, find out a bit about Mr. Amherst’s finances – his personal finances wouldn’t have been enough to finance either establishment, but you can’t find record of any bank loans either. This means he is most likely indebted to a private entity – a wealthy patron, or perhaps one of the organized crime syndicates. If it is the later, the lack of violence or insurance claims from the club would mean Amherst is doing well at keeping up with the payments.

Business hours start at lunchtime and go into the wee hours. They actually list their security requirements online – and surprisingly, they allow a “personal defense” weapon during normal “business hours” only. The after-work crowd is forbidden from bringing anything dangerous. “Personal defense” isn’t defined in a satisfactory manor, but you are pretty sure anything more than a single light pistol or tazer is likely to be considered outside of the range of “defensive” weaponry. Your security background makes you think that at a place like this, there will be at least one door man who would also serve as a bouncer, and at least one, probably two, hidden scanners. Most likely, there will be a MAD detector, and possibly a millimeter wave system to ID weapons, both focused on the main entrance. Given the heavy presence of smoke at most clubs, as well as the food and perfumes present, chem-sniffer systems aren’t likely to be used. If the club is particularly busy, or if there is a special event (none appear to be planned for tomorrow, at least according to your search) these security measures are likely to be increased.

Having scoped out the club’s background, you now feel ready for a visit – at least, a digital visit. You slide down the datalines, careful to take a few extra hops, and land in the public data terminal of Impish Delights. Hidden below their layers of advertising and menus, you find a virtual access point to a hidden area – marked “employees only.” Now the real fun can start.

Dual finds himself mildy intrigued by the information he was able to uncover. He is glad that the place won't be as seedy as he first thought - though that is going to make his next job a little tougher.

After a little bit of shuffling of programs, he goes about spoofing a new commlink ID, and brings up an agent program. His wall-trideo-set lights up as the agent initializes and Dual immediatly begins firing orders, pointing it at the node, and setting the agent's exploit level to "admin." This should be interesting, he thinks as he wills the agent to begin its routine.

As his wall lit up with furriously scrolling exploitation attempts, Dual got up and went to his bedroom again, and began rummaging through his closet. Middle-class buisness types, eh?

He poked his head out a few times to check on the progress and logs created by his agent - though in the back of his mind he could feel that nothing had gone wrong just yet.

Eventually, he picked out a pair of his nicer clothes: a pair of pants, and a long-sleeved shirt with a chinese collar. Both were bright white. He took them over by his bed and connected them to the black commlink (and clipped it to his belt). He then made the pants black, and the shirt gray.

Dual reached underneth his bed, and pulled out a nice black box. Clicking it open, he revealed two shining pistols. A moment later he closed the box, and slid it back under his bed, then he went back out into the living room.

Well, it looks like I will have some time to help out the 'Guildies' after all...

The world around him shifted and became like a castle - though on the inside of his shield, Dual could still see the results of his Agent's hard work. Probably only have an hour or two, I shouldn't start any big quests... Just then, Dual recognised someone else in the castle, and began idle chat....

After some idle conversation, you begin to loose yourself in the game world – good acquaintances (though virtual), a stout sword, what more could someone need in life? As has happened a hundred times before, time seems to slip by faster than you expected, with the work of the agent almost forgotten. You are debating “just one more dungeon’s worth of quests,” unsure of how much time has actually passed, when the text and symbols on the underside of your virtual shield begins changing colors furiously.

You immediately freeze your progress in the game and fill your vision with your agent’s status readouts. It reports two things happening almost simultaneously – first, in a light green, smooth font, the agent has reported success: it has found a way into the system. Practically interspersed with that message is another – this one in electric orange, a hard-edged font displaying a report that your agent believes it has been detected, and that defenses around the node in question have been raised.

You are certain your spoofed ID won’t lead them to your commlink directly, but trace IC is still a possibility if they ID your agent. You’ll have to review the logs to see what happened, but you know your first priority is to get your agent out of the line of fire – or worse, trace programs.

Dual quickly sends a command for the agent to redirect its data-trail and then disconnect. He then wills himself out of the dungeon, and sets his commlink to "offline".

Whew. Well, I suppose that means their Matrix security might be a little better than I thought. I might as well go out for a while and look over those logs...

And with that, Dual gets well outside of a 50m range of his apartment.

You leave your apartment, and head down the street in a randomly chosen direction, feeling reasonably confident your agent was able to disconnect before a trace could be completed. The air is chilly, but a few tweaks from your virtual weather controls and the weather begins to feel much more agreeable. You open an AR window in your (now offline) comlink’s field of vision, load up the agent’s logs, and begin to dissect them.

The first few hours were a bit slow, spent with standard response tests and following up a few false possibilities. At about three and a half hours, the agent uncovered something – a routine to handle simulated gravity sensations with a tiny algorithmic flaw. The agent worked furiously exploring this lead, and within another thirty minutes had found an exploit: A specially crafted icon with sim sense code could be created. When this “object” was “dropped,” the algorithm responsible for feeding the feelings of gravity would exceed its programming mandate, allowing your inserted code to access a restricted part of the system and return with a pseudo-account with admin-like privileges.

But then, a curious thing happened. There was a slight power glitch in one of the wireless hops you where using, and a packet sent by your agent was dropped. Unable to locate your spoofed ID, the router misidentified the packet’s origin, and mistakenly attempted to return it to the club’s server. The firewall, almost by chance, identified its origin correctly, and determined an attack was under way by your agent. It then proceeded to go on alert, and in doing so tipped off your agent that it had been spotted.

It looks like more of a chance spotting than a high-security system; though the security firewall was no slouch either.

Once he is a few blocks away, Dual catches a bus, and settles himself into a seat. A small AR window opens up, super-imposing itself over the window of the bus. He appears to be idly gazing out the bus-window, perhaps watching for his stop - but Dual's attention is really on the logs. After identifying what had happened, he feels a good deal better about the security around the system, and decides to give it another go (alert level be damned).

As the bus rounded the next corner, he activates his commlink again (in hidden mode) and insures that he is now conencting through a different wireless routing station. After spoofing a brand new ID, he is going to attempt to take advantage of the exploit discovered by his agent (hoping that the club's security hasn't had time to actually fix the problem).

Here goes nothing....

The bus hits an annoying pothole as you’re signing on; just another reminder of why you want to move up and out, why you’re hoping shadowruning was the right career choice.

You zip over to the Impish Delights main web presence, and re-locate the employee access. Your system readouts show that the employee node is still on alert. You breath in, lift your specially crafted icon, drop it towards the virtual floor, and…

nothing happens (breath out.) Either there is on-sight matrix security that is very fast at patching (pretty unlikely) or the heightened state of alert removed enough permissions from the “non-essential” software that your exploit no longer works. Even if that is the case, chances are someone will find the exploit in the logs before re-setting the system to normal.

You’ll either have to find a new way in, or pass up altogether. And you know finding a new exploit when the system is alerted to someone trying to do just that is a dangerous proposition.

Dual sighs. It didn't work, but at least it didn't explode in his face either. He figures he better get lost before that on-site security notices someone trying the exploit they just patched up.

He spends the rest of the day trying not to think about what information he didn't find, and instead does a little shopping for the meet tomarrow - and touch bases with some people at some clubs (while returning to that dungeon he skipped out of earlier). He decides to return home around midnight (roughly 5 hours later), but before leaving the club, he decides to check the site one more time - still using AR, to test the waters and see if the alert-status has gone down.

Early evening. Dark, still cold, and still damp:

A quick call to Shara reveals that she has a few concealable holsters already on hand. After you agree to the price (plus a 5% “finder’s fee” – in this case, a “no questions asked” fee, or perhaps a “speedy delivery” fee), she agrees to send one of her runners over with the goods.

“Unless you want to negotiate the price again, handsome” she smirks. Last time you negotiated, she talked you into at least a dozen features that nearly doubled your price…

Midnight, in an ARE-themed club you have visited a time or two before:

Lowering the volume from the music piped to your comlink by the club (why do any clubs pay for real speakers any more? you wonder), you once more set out for the Impish Delights virtual venue. Taking the usual extra repeater hops, you find yourself in their open access node again. Scanning your surroundings for the presence of the employees only node reveals it is still present, and no signs of active alert.

Early evening. Dark, still cold, and still damp (Though Dual wouldn't know it due to his ARE Virtual Weather program):

Dual agrees to the price. He knows she could probably talk him into some sort of quick-draw-concealable-wireless-enabled-super concealed holster on her worst day. The cooler the tech, the easier the sale. But as it was, his cred was getting a little tight lately (another reason he was glad fora chance at the job), he's happy with regular old concealable holsters for his pistols.


Midnight, in an ARE-themed club you have visited a time or two before:

Dual looks around and sees a number of people slouched over in the various booths of the club - but since this might take him some time, he doesn't really want to risk letting some chip-head robbing him blind while he "sleeps." Besides, this music makes a great soundtrack to what he's about to do.

He orders himself a drink, and looks down on his table. Alright, time to do this myself. A terminal springs to life across his table. Everything seems calm over at Impish Delights, so Dual prepares for a long night as he starts to uncover some new weakness in their system (avoiding those already tested by his Agent earlier that day).

After finishing his first drink Dual noticed he wasn't really able to give his full attention to the task - and that doing it in AR would just take too long. Even with his mind moving at VR speeds, he needed full immersion to really give this task the proper effort. The background music (which he was getting into) and the girls dancing near his table were all just a little too distracting. Plus, no matter how many AR windows he opened, he just wasn't able to track the data fast enough.

Still certain that he didn't want to pass out in the club for a few hours, he decided to leave. On the bus-ride home, he started to form some ideas in his head about some security holes he wanted to look into....

Wednesday (just barely), 12:25 am. Outside Dual's appartment
Upon returning to your apartment, you check the small space behind the set of mailboxes for the building. There is a brown paper-wrapped package there, as expected. The names on the deliver-to address and the return address match the code names that Shara uses when delivering goods. Looks like your new holsters are here.

A few minutes later, Inside the appartment
“VR – the difference between watching the game, and playing it.” At least, that’s what the adverts say. Get right in the action, feel every detail, that’s what VR is about. Most of the time, who’d want that? Who would want to feel their weekly status report, or their tax returns?

Hacking in, though, is different. You could find a weakness by plowing through test / response data, by digging logically through miles and miles of code in hundreds of display windows. But you worry you’d start to grow old and gray before getting anywhere. For this task, VR was the right solution. The code, the potential exploits, every bit in the system could flow through you – it was like using every single nerve and fiber in your body at once, to a single purpose. It was the one area that AR just couldn’t compete with; and it was exhilarating.

For what you hope is the last time tonight, you slide down the data lines towards Impish Delights; this time feeling the ‘air’ wash through your hair, and the warmth of the data flowing past on your skin. With a couple of grand leaps, you add the extra number of bounces to slow a trace enough for you to respond, and then suddenly you’re there.

You dive into the task, with every response the opposing system makes reverberating through your body. You feel the subroutines. You hear the processing threads. You taste the loops. You smell the data. The light of the logic behind it all dances before your eyes. And seemingly before you began (but knowing more time has passed) you find the solution.

The slight tingle, near the code your agent found hours earlier – it’s still a way in. Not the same exploit as before, but related. When the system was patched, the old exploit was fixed – but not perfectly. Where you to try the old exploit now, the system would be alerted, and the process would loose the permissions needed to get you access. But the code that sends the alert – that talks to the most sensitive parts of the system, and was coded quickly. There’s a hole, room for your code. And the alert never has to be sent…

You quickly construct another virtual object; a virtual ‘key’ of sorts. It won’t set off the alert, but it will use it to get you in. Once again, all you must do to activate it is drop it, and you’ll be through the gate at last. You check the chronometer – 4 hours have passed since you started.