Hunting in the Smoke IC, British Shadows are dark... mostly... Options Track this topic Email this topic Print this topic Download this topic Subscribe to this forum Display Modes Switch to: Outline Switch to: Standard Linear+

[Drain Brain]

London, like many cities, is not the healthiest of places to live. It is a dirty place - to be sure - and there is the oppressive smog, which inspired the oh-so-delicate naming of the place as “the Smoke.”

But that’s not the worst of the health-issues. No, no… there are far worse things on the streets of Old London Town than the occasional McHugh’s wrapper. Things that can choke the life from a man faster than any polluted air. It’s the people, term, the people. London is like one big apathetic sore on the world, where nobody cares about anything – except themselves.

So, pretty much like any city then.

For the people that have to live there, there aren’t many options. Sure, if you have money, power, or at least a job, it’s a different story. There’s the likelihood that you’ll have food on the table and a roof to keep out the periodic acid rains which whip down through the skeleton of the city’s cursed weather protection dome. If you lack these things, however, the future is bleak without outside help. Communities band together for protection. Gangs of all shapes and sizes alternately help and harass the populace. Corporations do little for the dregs of London save exploit them as cheap labour.

But they do have one use…

London has a thriving Shadow community. Not, perhaps, as busy or boisterous as say Seattle or even Philly, but it’s there and its steaming.

That’s why there are people like you around. Runners. Hunting in the Smoke.


The following messages are received by the runners…

Sandy Jackson:
Timed at 0415 hours in the dark of Thursday morning, a video message reveals the leering visage of Blue Sam on the tiny screen of Sandy’s Pocket Secretary.
“Alright there gorgeous, s’Sam. I’m guessin’ that you still don’t wanna come work for me in the way I’d like,” he winks, “so here’s something else for ya’ – an invite from a Johnson passed to me by a mate. Lookin for someone real goodlookin’ who knows how-ta talk their way about, right? Obviously I thought of you first…
“If you’re interested, go to the Siren – 53 Commercial Road – tonight at ten. They say time is short, so it has to be today.
“Catchya later, petal.”

Stone:
Whilst taking his morning exercise, the Stone is disturbed by the incessant ringing of his ‘phone…
“Stone?” the raspy cockney voice grates on ears more used to softer Korean accents. “Badger here… a little job has come to my attention, ya’ follow? Seems there’s a bit of a rush, so they are after the best and right-quick too. If you’re not busy, Johnson’s meeting a crew at The Siren tonight at ten-oh-five. Don’t know why the weird time. But listen – I want a good cut this time…”

Piper:
Despite the lack of an official trumpet, Piper was still up at the crack of dawn, exercising and running through his katas. Fresh bread and hot coffee had long since passed his lips when he finally noticed the winking indication of a message on his P-Sec.
A French accented voice fairly assaulted the room in its intensity. “Monsieur O’Toole, zis is Eric DeLande of Mr Whelan’s agency… we have you on our books as available for work in ze area. We may have a… casting for you zis evening at ze Siren in Commercial Road. Please arrive at twenty-two-ten for your appointment. Contact’s name is Johnson. Good Luck…”

Fridge:
Luckily, the fare in the back is slotting some chip or other when Tyrone’s radio blares out with George’s excited voice.
“Ty, Ty… we’ve had a call, but it ain’t no fare…
“Asked fer you specifically by the “Fridge” moniker too – said to come to the Siren tonight at five to ten to talk about a few days’ work.” George could barely contain his curiosity. “So, you gonna go or what?”

Deuce:
A man – or rather a gargantuan Troll – with the rather inspired name of “Fist” greets Markus from the telecom’s screen. As a higher class of pro-bodyguard, his well-doctored teeth gleam as he grins, speaking coolly accented English. “Hey there, term. I could use a hand, if possible.
“There’s a meet going down tonight, 9:45 at the Siren – you heard of that, right? – and they’re apparently after some discrete muscle for a little work in the Smoke. I’d go myself, but there’s a new client in town…”

[Kurukami]

Despite his distaste for the upjumped human, Stone kept his voice polite and even as he replied. On a professional level, Badger was a useful resource, and there was no need to have him get irate over such a small thing as his percentage.

"You will get your usual percentage, Badger. The size of it depends on the size of the job you have brought to my attention."

"Yeah, well... just you make sure I get wot's mine," replied Badger over the cellphone. Stone could picture him even without a vid-pickup, straightening the out-of-fashion tie he habitually wore and glaring out from under the rim of his bowler hat. "After all, I remember wot happened seven jobs ago. You've done right by me since, and we done some good business together, but I want wot's due me."

Stone reassured him again with a quiet tone, then disconnected. Badger had an irritating manner, that could not be denied, but it also remained true that he lined up interesting work. Stone looked around the apartment, then began to crack his joints in the pattern he always used to relax. Fingers, wrists, elbows, shoulders, and finally a slow clockwise roll of the neck completed the routine.

Work. Things have been so slow recently I had nearly forgotten how much I liked the anticipation. With a half-smile skewing his craggy features, he stretched his broad, three-meter frame and went to make breakfast.

[Rakshasa]

Way back in the 17th century London was known for its fog. During the 20th century, 1950's to be exact, smog, as it was called, killed 4000 people in one week in good old London Town. No wonder the City is called the Big Smoke.

Piper rolled over, trying to get comfortable and failing dismally. It didn't matter much, the glimmer from his alarm told him it was nearly 6am and time to get up anyway. He had a lesson to teach at seven. Why wannabe kung fu artists wished to take a lesson before going about their business, Piper neither knew nor, really, cared. He just sometimes wished they wouldn't.

The short Irishman heaved his legs over the edge of the futon and made it to his feet in one easy motion. Standing there momentarily, naked and feeling the cool breeze coming through the open window, Alex Murphy O'Toole felt as alive as he ever had been. Today would see the start of something big, he was certain. No idea what it would be, nor where the call would come from but, to the one time Master Sargent, his fortune was about to arrive around the corner any moment now.

But then, he thought that every morning.

The lesson went well, unexpectedly, and Piper had nothing scheduled until noon. It was time for breakfast. Fresh bread with lashings of butter, followed, or concurrent with hot black coffee, set the ex -Master Sargent up for the rest of the day. He meandered up to the flat roof above the dojo, where he could go through his own routine, looking out over the polluted stream, which was the Thames.

Sweat glistening on taut, vibrant skin, Piper finally noticed the winking indication of a message on his P-Sec as he came out of the small shower down in his attic room.

A French accented voice fairly assaulted the room in its intensity. “Monsieur O’Toole, zis is Eric DeLande of Mr Whelan’s agency… we have you on our books as available for work in ze area. We may have a… casting for you zis evening at ze Siren in Commercial Road. Please arrive at twenty-two-ten for your appointment. Contact’s name is Johnson. Good Luck"

A casting? It took the Irishman a moment to remember that his Theatrical Agent also found him work, infrequently, for his other, more militaristic skills, rather than his acting ability or stunt doubling. The Siren. I know that place. Along the Commercial road in the old garment district where sweat shops abound. 30 pence Sterling for each garment completed. And the slaves, for such they are, have to complete their daily quota of fifty per day. Truly sweated labour.

Piper sat down, pondering on the possibility of a job as he leafed through a copy of Modern Merc - Swimsuit edition.

Ten-o-clock saw him entering the Siren, it's smoky atmosphere hitting his fit lungs like a sledge hammer.

[Digital Heroin]

`Georgie, Georgie, slow down a tick boyo. If that there fellow back behind me wasn't chipping up at the moment, you'd be in a site bit of shite right now. As it is, I could use some splosh, so I'll be droppin' this 'ere berk off 'n be taking my leave for the day. Cover for me, will you Georgie lad, I may be gone a few.`

When the fare's dropped off, Tyrone heads back to his garage, to give the taxi it's daily check up, then he tucks in to his mid afternoon meal, and grabs a bit of a nap. Some time going over the transmission of his rally truck follows, when he realizes he'd best be off. A quick network check, and he triggers to door release, taking off with his two slave taxis following at a decent clip behind.

At ten to ten, the massive troll pries himself out of the front seat of his cab, which is parked just down the street from Siren. The other two cabs are parked a couple blocks beyond that. When five to ten rolls around, Tyrone makes his entrance, adjusting his cap as he lets his eyes get used to the light.

[Kurukami]

0845 - atop an apartment building in Notting Hill

The loose gravel that had escaped the roof's tarry grip gritted under Stone's bare feet as he took his stance and began. He always enjoyed the morning ritual, getting out and having the space all around him in which to run through kata. His apartment, large as it was, was not quite spacious enough to permit the sweeping motions that the hapkido kata required.

The rising sun shone with a bloody light through the haze that fouled the air. Away to the east, across the archipelago of rooftops, the usually green expanse of Kensington Gardens was tinted with shades of rose. An omen, perhaps?

Time will tell. And speaking of time... Five minutes after the hour was a strange moment to rendezvous. Maybe the employer in question was just being clever about the meet, though, trying to throw off any impressions generated by a substantial number of questionable people crowding through Siren's front door at the stroke of ten.

He let his thoughts drown in the patterned movements of the kata, putting distractions aside as he flowed through the motions time and again. Half an hour later, with patches of sweat darkening the athletic shirt he wore, he straightened from the final sweep, bowed to the east, and descended the stairs back to his apartment to shower.

At the very least it will be a welcome change of pace. I will have to contact those above me, though, and inform them of my engagement.

[Kurukami]

2203 - down the street from Siren's

Stone waited in the darkened mouth of the alley, taking in the panorama of Commercial Street. Siren's was a good fifty meters away or more through the light evening drizzle, but the magnification hardware that nestled behind his retinas allowed him to study faces as though they were only a few meters in front of him. Most of those who had entered the nightclub in the past twenty-five minutes were nothing but toffs and suits, but there were a few...

At five minutes to ten, the troll who was only a few centimeters shorter than he, prying himself out of the cab which was parked halfway between Stone's position and the club.

At ten p.m. precisely, with the carillon striking the hour, the short human who from his features was most likely Irish. The way he moved, smooth, always balanced, suggested a practitioner of some form of martial arts.

There were a few others who had caught his eye as possibles, but... well, time would tell. Stone glanced at his wristwatch one last time and stepped fluidly away from the alley's wall. Time to go to work. He walked swiftly down the damp sidewalk, the hood of his Ulysses greatcoat keeping the rain off his scalp, and ducked through the entrance to Siren's with five seconds to spare.

[Rakshasa]

Some would say that O'Toole had tunnel vision when it came to work. Not his eyesight, you understand, that was 20-20. No, it was to do with concentration. But then, those that said such a thing didn't really know the soldier at all.

The Siren was, as expected, crowded out. Where people got the money to party all night in the back end of Whitechapel, Piper couldn't figure. Besides, the whole area was sleazy, certain to end in a fight, or the death of some misbegotten term before dawn broke.

He headed for the bar, eyes nowhere and everywhere. Suits abounded, along with their female attachments, but that wasn't what Piper was looking for. Runners have a certain aura about them. A kind of `I'm not really here so don't look at me' feeling to them which, over the years, Piper had learnt to identify.

Even a place like the Siren attracts all kinds, you name the breed and it'll be somewhere in the joint. The troll by the door. The one in the greatcoat. Yeah, probable. Maybe even that tasty piece of skirt that had just wandered in. "Gimme a shot. Irish." Piper's voice was low but penetrated to the trained ears of the bartender. A single woman without a friend was either a brass or a runner, almost by definition. By the look of her, either could be the case.

The shot glass appeared like magic and filled with a light amber liquid. No chance of it being what he ordered of course, but drinking it would while away a few minutes and put something in the adept's hand - just in case - without raising suspicion. Piper paid for the sour tasting spirit, no better than 5% proof by his reckoning, and leant his back against the bar, continuing his survey of the Siren's denizens.

[Kurukami]

Stone made his way carefully through the crowd towards the bar, fully aware that his size made moving quickly a difficult prospect. The Irishman was already at one end of the countertop, sipping at a shot glass and studying the crowd. Stone headed for the bar's middle and drew the pourer's attention. "Guinness. A pint."

Once the stein was in his hand, he glided off towards one of the darker corners, where hopefully they had a reinforced chair or two. The thought of trying to perch his 700-kilo frame on one of the barstools was preposterous. He arrived at one such chair just before a pair of entwined, amorous elves who were clearly planning to use it as a snogging sofa, gave them a glowering stare, and took his seat.

And now, we wait. He took a sip from the stein of ale, which fit inside the breadth of his palm as neatly as a coffee mug would for a human's, and studied the figures and faces and heat-patterns of those around him.

[Rakshasa]

Sipping the foul tasting, so called whiskey, Piper let his mind wander over what he knew about this deal. What was it DeLande had said in that abominable French accent of his? The contact's name is Johnson. Jeses! The contact's always called Johnson! Whoever the original Johnson was, he must have had a bike and a girl in every port, to mix adages.

The troll had taken up a nice position, Piper noted. Far enough back and out of the way to watch the whole bar, almost, yet, with his large frame, quite capable, the soldier guessed, of getting to any corner of the place should the need arise. So far, according to the short hairs along the nape of Piper's neck, said `need' hadn't, and didn't appear to be about to `arise'.

He gave the bar another broad scan. "Come on Mr Johnson. Where the hell are you?" Piper, getting bored fast, decided to check out his assumptions. Well, one of them at least. He drained the shot glass and called the barman. "Two pints o' Guinness." He laid nuyen on the bar and lifted the dark ale, one in each hand. Side-stepping inebriated patrons, the soldier made his way into the gloom and the seated troll.

"Seat taken?" Piper nudged a chair nearer the table and sat on it, putting a glass of ale down and sipping the other. "Kinda crowded, an I'm waiting for someone. Hope you don't mind?" He sipped again, watching the troll over the rim of the glass. Of course, if he was wrong, he could always apologise and shift his ass somewhere else - if the troll'd let him that is.

[Kurukami]

Stone raised an eyebrow at the Irishman's audacity. Still... If his guess as to the vocation of the small man was correct, there was little harm in being social. "Not at all," he replied, forming each word precisely. He narrowed his Asiatic eyes at the Irish in consideration. "I suspect that there are many people in this place tonight who expect to meet someone shortly."

He drained what little remained of his stein of ale with a single motion, then set the empty gently on the wooden tabletop. And that leaves me with a solid item to fling if it comes down to it.

[Mysterio]

Deuce strolls into the Siren, cocky as always. Cigarette in his mouth, he flashes his sly elven smile at some of the ladies. They in turn give a sexy smile back. He's dressed fine and didn't care if they wanted him for his money or his looks. The two complimented each other nicely he often thought.
He wanders over to the bar and puts out his cigarette.
"What'll it be sir?" asked the barkeep. Deuce, not even glancing at the barkeep orders himself a glass of chardonnay. Being told that such drinks aren't served there, he agrees to have the house wine. The barkeep quickly fetches him the tall glass and deuce lays down some nuyen on the counter. The barkeep scoops it up and while Deuce begins to light a cigarette, he remind the barkeep that he wants his change.
"And be quick, I'm meeting someone..."

[Kurukami]

Stone threw a glance over towards the bar, scanning for whoever his contact might be. He doubted it was the Irish -- if it was, the man would have known his identity and not beaten around the bush. The other troll had taken a seat against the eastern wall, which was hardly the wisest position to observe from, and appeared to be waiting similarly. That ruled him out in Stone's mind.

And then... then there was the chain-smoking elven dandy who had just strolled in as though the place belonged to him. The amplifier and sound filtration hardware cut the ambient noise in the room to a dull background hum, and Stone listened with curiosity as the fop tried to order Chardonnay and settled for the Siren's undoubtedly watered-down house wine.

No, definitely not him either. Johnson's tend to be a bit more... discreet.

[Rakshasa]

Piper realised that the troll was scanning the bar in much the same way as he was himself. Seemed like there was every chance that he would turn out to be a fellow runner on whatever the caper was.

The noisy Elf who had just arrived, calling for some posh drink and eyeing up the talent, captured Piper's attention. There was a certainty of recognition, at least of the type, if not the person. You don't run without gaining a knowledge of who else is in the game, and this Elf fitted the descriptions Piper had heard from various quarters.

And that makes four. Two heavies, a dandy Elf and me. He glanced again at the eye candy which had come in earlier. Maybe five. Now all we need is the Johnson.

[Mysterio]

Deuce sat at the bar and surveyed the room. He wasn't looking for anyone that may appear to be a runner, or a Johnson for that matter. Deuce was more interested in the women. There was one girl in particular, a burnette human, dancing not too far away that caught his eye.
Doesn't seem to be with any guy, looks like she'd here for the pick-up. He downed his drink, and lit another cigarette.
Where the frag is this damn Johnson?
It was at that moment that the dancing burnette glanced in his direction and then quickly looked away. Deuce smiled and gave a puff on the smoke.
Maybe Mr. Johnson can take a little while longer...

[Drain Brain]

Engaged as they were in various conversations, their own thoughts, or clandestine inspection of the Siren’s multi-faceted clientele, the runners could well have been forgiven for failing to notice the arrival of their Johnson. For the more perceptive amongst them, a middle aged man in a now-drying raincoat could be noticed stepping in from the cold outside, shaking off an umbrella and frizzing unkempt, wet hair with a gloved hand.

The man stood by the door for a short time, shrugging a small leather satchel off his shoulder and peering across the bar. Although he could have been anybody, his making a point of lingering on each of the runners was at least indicative of recognition. With a brief detour to the bar, he made his way to an empty booth, squirming to the far end of the bench seat, with his back to the door – which in and of itself was odd. He did, however, continue to stare in turn at six of the bar’s patrons…

It was quite clear that this man, sweating brow hidden under lank brown locks, wanted to somehow get the runners attention, but even still it looked like he was going to jump out of his skin when the first of them - a diminutive human man with a long black coat - bit the bullet and crossed to Johnson's table

[Rakshasa]

The time had long past for the Johnson to appear, very much to the irritation of Piper who, with his military background, was used to punctuality. Yet none of the patrons of the Siren looked like being someone with a task they needed sorting. Let alone having the money to hire runners.

The bat wing doors clattered, allowing cold wind and the smell of rain to waft into the bar, along with a raincoated dweeb of a man. For the briefest of moments, Piper found himself in eye contact with the newcomer, but it broke almost immediately as the nondescript continued to cast his gaze around the bar.

Piper watched as the man moved, not going to the bar, as he had expected him to but, instead, making his way to a small, surprisingly empty, booth where he sat, back to the door. The back end of Whitechapel was clearly not one of this guy's usual haunts. No one who had the first inkling of this part of London would sit with their back to an entrance. And certainly not in the Siren with its notorious reputation.

That's it! Piper realised it was the rep which had made this place the obvious choice for a meet. A Johnson who had need of runners, particularly if he had never hired some before, would choose a known `sleazy dive'. Naturally, he would think, runners on the lookout for work, or a good workout, would frequent such a place. And this Johnson was a novice when it came to the shadows, as evidenced by his lack of care in where, and how, he sat.

Piper glanced at the troll. "Think that might be my man." He pushed the other glass of Guinness toward the troll. "Here, you might as well have this." He carried his own glass, half full, and moved toward the jumpy and sweating man in the booth.

Before he could shoulder his way through the crush of half drunk patrons, Piper found himself pre-empted. A man, smaller than Piper himself, made it to the booth and sat down.

Piper hovered, sipping Guinness, and waited to see what would transpire, still certain that this was the Johnson he, and the rest, whoever they turned out to be, were waiting for.

[Kurukami]

How curious, thought Stone. The recent entry certainly could be the Johnson, given the way he behaved -- clearly looking for someone, somewhat discreet, yet not in possession of the presence that had identified some of the others to Stone's eyes. The prospective Johnson's choice of seating was abysmal, though -- first, with his back to the door; second, in one of the booths that was far too tiny to fit a troll of Stone's stature. Additionally, any attempt by him to communicate with the man now sitting in the booth near the door would draw a substantial amount of attention, which Johnsons usually preferred to avoid.

He leaned forward to sniff at the Guinness the Irishman had left, focussing his augmented hearing on whatever conversation might be going on across the floor.

[Silverspur_2020]

06:00

Waking to the sound of the beep of her terminal, Sandy got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown before watching the message play several times over making sure that she understood what the client would want. Just the sight of this pervert on her video phone made her feel dirty, so without hesitation she deletes the message and decides to go and shower. Enjoying the powerful hot water jets pound her body she plans her day, making sure she has plenty of time to get ready for the evenings meet.

Later on, dressed in a smart and stylish Zoe~ Trouser suit she rings Pete to make sure that he will be able to pick her up this evening and see if he can work the area so that he can pick her up when needed, letting him know that even though he doesnt usually work that patch... she will reward him enough to make up for any money he may or may not have lost out on. Then she checks the stock market to see how things are shaping up... happy that eveything is going fine she sets the alarm and heads into town.


08:30
Stood at a distance, she watches a young and very beautiful Elven girl climb out of a car and go running into school to meet her friends. Sandy smiles, even though her heart feels heavy at being so near yet far. Maybe one day....
Turning on her heel and walking back to her car she gets out the well used pocket secretary and dials up a couple of people who she knows are in need of work. "Listen, Ive got a job for you which I think you might be interested in...." Being the middleman was always a fun game, like a skilled game of chess you always made sure you kept the upper hand from the other player and only put them into check when you were sure you could get mate


18:00
Her own bussiness having been taken care of, and all instructions having been given, Sandy puts on some music as she stands in front of her ample wardrobe and looks for the most appropriate outfit. Knowing the club, she knows she needs something slightly slutty yet professional enough to show that shes good for the job. Too much of one of the other and it could all go horribley wrong!

22:00
Having just got out of the cab, Sandy turns and thanks Pete and pays him for his work so far as well as the plentiful tip that she promiced. "You take care of yourself Miss Jackson, I know you can but that doesnt stop me worrying! When you need me just give me a call and I will be right over" She couldnt help but smile at this mans genuine feelings. "Im sure I will be fine Pete, but thanks for the thought! See you later!!"
and with that she walks into the club, feeling and looking fantastic! Wearing her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she has obviously spent time expertly applying her makeup to show her Elven features and ebony skin tones. There is just the hint of blue glitter applied around the eyes to not only draw attention to them but to also match her top, which was a tight black little number with blue sparkles and cut low enough to give men an idea of her ample cleavage but not too low to have it on display! Wearing a plain black thigh length skirt it looks innocent enough to the casual observer, but if a man were lucky enough to get his hand up it (which he wouldnt be!) he would find a small concealed holster housing a Walther Palm Pistol! and as she hadnt antcipated any need for running tonight, she was wearing black stilettos to make her legs look that bit longer!
Mixing with the other women in the club she orders a bottle of orange from the bar... doing this for two reasons, one because she wanted to make sure she was clear headed, and two so that she knew it wasnt spiked! To anybody who was watching, she was just anther women out for a good time.
Heading out to the dancefloor she starts dancing with a human women who appears to be enjoying herself, this was she can just tell the men that she isnt "that way inclined" but it also gives her the perfect excuse to move, look around and watch the room without sitting in the corner and looking conspicuous. Just like that Troll over there....
As the man walks into the club, she spots him straight away and would have gone over and made it look like she was flirting with him and some man not walked over there. But nevermind... instead she changes tactic, and leaves the dancefloor as though she has had enough for a little while.
Heading over confidently she looks directly at the man and smiles sweetly...."Mind if I take a seat hunny?"

[Mysterio]

Deuce was enjoying himself at the club. The sights, the sounds...the women. The burnette lost Deuce's attention as soon as he saw the elven girl come into the bar. Gorgeous he thought. He watched her go on the dance floor
And a great body...nice moves Finishing his cigarette, he puts the butt out and stands up, adjusting his tie, straightens his jet black ponytail and then begins to head over.
Much to his dismay, the gorgeous elven woman makes her way off the dance floor and over to a booth in the corner.
She didn't come in with him...and if I have anything to do with it, she ain't leaving with him
Deuce confidently makes his way over. He's picked up many women in his time, She won't be any different As he approached the booth he noticed the man sitting there. What would she want with that guy?
"Mind if I take a seat hunny?" He over hears her say to the seated man. before he could answer Deuce says "Excuse me, I was wondering if i could buy you a drink, or at the very least, have a dance?"

[Kurukami]

Damn it. Chances are that's the man I'm here to meet, Stone grumbled to himself. The primary difficulty was that any of the three alternatives to approaching the contact were likely to draw a great deal of attention.

First, of course, he could simply walk across the crowded floor, but with no way to fit into the booth across the way he'd stand out like a sore ten-foot thumb.

Second, he could walk across and sit down on the floor near the contact. That, however, had the double negative of both drawing attention and demeaning himself by sitting on the less-than-clean floor.

Third, he could pick up the chair he was sitting in, assuming it wasn't chained to the floor, and take it across the room to the booth. That was the most tempting, but the sight of a troll hefting a sofa across the dance floor would undoubtedly draw far more attention than either of the previous options.

There was, however, a fourth alternative that suddenly popped into his mind -- a quiet method which could bring all interested parties to the far more controllable location where he was currently sitting, and which meant he didn't have to wade across the dance floor.

He slipped his hands into his pockets to retrieve a Euro coin, a pen, and a small piece of paper from his notebook.

[Silverspur_2020]

Feeling slightly irritated at this slimy little Elf trying to chat her up... Sandy sits down just accross from the suspected contact, "No thank you, In case you hadnt realised, I have just left the dancefloor and I have a drink already!" and Sandy indicates her bottle of OJ. Hoping that he would clearly get the hint that he stood no chance.

[Mysterio]

Deuce smiled. "Of course, how silly of me"
A challenge...
Not paying any attention to anyone else at the table, he sits down across from her. "My name is Deuce" and he extends his hand for a friendly handshake

[Silverspur_2020]

Still wondering if this was just another tactic to get into her underware she simply shook his hand, "Sandy"

[Silverspur_2020]

Still wondering if this was just another tactic to get into her underware she simply shook his hand, "My names Sandy... no jokes please, ive heard them all" and with that she hoped this was the end of it.

[Mysterio]

Cold, very cold... Though not one to give up so easily, Deuce knew if he kept up the pressure, then there would be no chance of...well...drinks afterwards. He smiled sweetly, "Pleasure is all mine..." then fished a cigarette out of his pocket

[Drain Brain]

Looking somewhat like a rabbit in the headlights of an advancing truck, newbie-Johnson stared at his visitors. As they introduced themselves he looked at each, confusion clouding his face. Then, with a resigned sigh, settled back into his chair to waot until they had finnished their pleasantries. As Deuce lit his cigarette, the Johnson cleared his throat.

"Erm, excuse me," he said quietly, " I think I'm meant to be meeting some people here... are you Ms. Jackson?" He faced the elven woman as he spoke, pointedly ignoring the puffs of smoke crossing the table in his direction. Her nod was enough encoragement for him to continue.

"I think I've seen some others in here for our meeting - would you like to help me? I understand you're... fairly good at talking to people. The troll on the far side of the room, aparently called "Fridge?" - he's one. And the other at the table in the back... and, oh... this gentleman here in the soldier costume, sorry uniform and Mr - er, Bandwidth Bob here. Erm..." He took out a small sheet of paper from his top pocket and scanned it once before continuing. "My employer has arranged with the management here for a room to be set aside "out back." If you want to come through when you're ready? I'm sure there will be drinks and nibbles..."

Leaving a trio of astounded and/or confused runners around the table, he picked up his soda and crisps and made for the bar and the rooms beyond.

[Rakshasa]

Piper stopped in his tracks. The dweeb, in agitated conversation with a couple of elves and a strange, blond headed guy in a raincoat, suddenly up and left the booth, heading for the bar.

What was there to do? He turned and looked pointedly at the Troll he had just left and shrugged.

Although there was no doubt in Piper's mind that the dweeb was, indeed, the Johonson. Who else would collect such a disparate band around him and then have them follow wherever he was off to? The Irishman considered it prudent to hang back a little to see where the little party was headed.

Watching them, he felt air pushing toward him and realised that the Troll had vacated his large seat and had joined him.

"Might as well tag along, don't you think?" Piper looked at the Troll, waiting for his approval.

[Kurukami]

"Indeed", rumbled Stone quietly in reply. "Apparently the contact's choice of seating was not as unfortunate as I had originally thought."

"Thank you for the Guinness, by the way. I find it a refreshing substitute for... food." He raised his stein in salute and began to slip around the dance floor, angling to intercept the Johnson's party without disrupting too much of the mass of dancers.

[Mysterio]

Holy drek, is this our Johnson? Can't be....can it? sitting puzzled for a second, Deuce finally figured that it was, indeed, their Johnson. Well at least that'll give me a chance to show Ms Sandy there what I'm made of and he grinned, hoping no one was watching.
Finally, as the Johnson headed towards the back room, Deuce got up and followed him.

[Digital Heroin]

While he was waiting, Fridge had scored himself a pint of the black stuff, and lifted a whole bowl of peanuts. When he sees the others gathering he moves to join them, much to the releif of the stool he'd been sitting upon. No sense in being left behind for a meet, now was there?

[Drain Brain]

For anyone who's actually been in the back of a British pub, the room would come as no surprise. Anyone else would be forgiven for losing their lunch.

The space quite obviously hadn't been re-decorated since the 50's - the Nineteen-50's - and was curiously dimensioned. The ceiling would certainly be no trouble for the trolls at well over 12 feet, but squeezing them all in amongst the stacked red-velvet chairs and folding tables would almost have been an issue were there but a few more of them.

As the Johnson had promised, there was a table of mediocre-looking buffet food, complete with pre-corked bottles of the house wine, both white and red, of course...

It was shaping up to be a party...

The runners entered the room after the Johnson, who appeared to be a little more at ease now, out of the sight of the general public. He was seated at the far end of the room with a glass of wine in hand, munching delicately on a breadstick. He watched them enter and gestured to seats already laid out for them.

"Hi... thanks for coming." He mumbled. His words gave an air of the old cliché: "Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking..." He grabbed his case and pulled forth a top-of-the-line pocket secretary, smartly plugging it into a battered looking wall projector. He took out his little paper note once more and faced the group.

"Right. Hello everybody, my name is Johnson. You're here because my superiors have a job they need doing, urgently, and you all come highly recommended." It did seem like he was reading from the sheet of paper. "Understand that I can't tell you specifically what it is until you have agreed to the task, so the basics will have to do: You must find something, somewhere in London, as soon as possible. We don't know who has it, but we know a place to start looking. Opposition should be minimal, if at all, and the payment offered is five hundred nuyen per day, with a final payment of two-thousand upon return of the... item... pending confirmation of it's validity. Additionally, for every day under 1 week that you come in, there will be an additional bonus per head of one thousand nuyen."

He looked up at the runners. "Any takers?"

[Rakshasa]

Piper had sauntered into the back room not knowing what to expect. The sight of the manky buffet and the dweeb, sitting like a Lord, at the end of the room made him laugh aloud, but he recovered quickly and turned the bellow into a sort of strangled cough.

He pulled a red velvet chair around, preferring to sit across it, and plonked himself down to listen as the room became claustrophobic, despite its height, filling with two trolls, two elves and three humans all in the same space. Least, Piper assumed the blonde and the dweeb were human.

The brief on the job didn't say very much, but then, Piper thought, it isn't meant to. Even so, Find something, don't know what, who has it or where it is, and deliver it. wasn't a lot to go on. But the money sounded good, and that's what they were all here for - wasn't it?

"Count me in, Mr Johnson." Piper rose and lifted a small triangular sandwich with curling crusts from a plate on the table, opened it and peered inside at the smeared fish paste. He replaced it, shuddering, and picked up a breadstick instead before returning to his seat.

[Silverspur_2020]

lets see if we can squeese a bit more out of this little man... Sandy thought to herself as she flashed one of her brilliant and knowing smiles towards the nervous looking Johnson. "Well, it certainly does seem like a sound offer. but then there are other costs involved... such as petrol, bribing of people if need be to name but a few! how about we increase the amount by a pleasent sum for both parties? by say 50% per head?" Lets start with a high ball and see where we can go from here...

[Mysterio]

Sitting down in the little room, Deuce looked around at the dump that was to be their meeting place. Holy drek, this place should be torn down. Street meat live in better dumps than this
He looked around at the rest of the crew. Amateurs...I'm always given amateurs.
The Johnson began to give his obviously poorly rehearsed speech and terms. "...You must find something, somewhere in London, as soon as possible. We don't know who has it..."
FRAG what do you know!?!
"... but we know a place to start looking...."
Well that's a start
"Any takers?" asked the Johnson
Deuce had to admit, the payoff sounded good. Too good to be true. Minimal opposition, find some item..how hard could it be? Heck was a team of runners needed? He could probably do this on his own and still be home in time for dinner.
"Count me in, Mr Johnson." said someone from behind Deuce. Great...dead weight...
"...how about we increase the amount by a pleasent sum for both parties? by say 50% per head?" asked the lady Deuce had already had the pleasure of meeting.
Deuce was somewhat amazed. He admired her initiative. Most women he knew acted like mindless beings in most situations. just going along for the ride until the money wore out. Hopefully she plays as tough when things get hot as she has so far tonight. he smiled as he threw his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it, extinguishing the butt.
"I'm with her"

[Drain Brain]

The Johnson frowned at the pair of "uppers." "An expense account will be made available with limited funds, in advance, to cover such costs. Two thousand in sterling, since it's for domestic usage. Any expenses beyond that will be considdered pending completion. The fee itself, however, is non-negotiable I'm afraid, and as we're in a little hurry, I'm afraid we can't afford to argue the point."

Possibly, just slightly, a little bit of a harder edge crept into the voice. "Are you in?"

[Rakshasa]

The Irishman crunched his breadstick, "Don't sweat it me little colleen, you neither me dandy friend. In my experience, most runs have some sort of side benefit. You just have to look for them. Besides, an expense account is something I, for one, could get very used to."

Piper finished the breadstick and helped himself to a small glass of, what turned out to be, a passable white wine, to wash the crumbs down.

[Kurukami]

A scavenger hunt. Quite intriguing, that. Having dismissed the chairs as entirely inadequate, Stone stood at rest, eyeballing the food spread across the rather small table and listening to the bartering and bantering. Most of the edibles were of dubious quality, although the devilled eggs didn't look half bad. Ghu only knew how long they'd been out, though, and without any sign of a container of either Tabasco sauce or a fine curry he dismissed what was available as less than appetizing.

With an mental sigh, he turned his full attention back towards the discussion. When he spoke, he kept his deep, rumbling voice relatively soft, letting the syllables roll precisely out of his mouth. It would not do to leave the others with the impression they were dealer with the usually dull trollish individual.

"I conditionally accept your offer, based upon the quality of the information you are able to give us. At the very least, it is important to know the item's dimensions and details, and the last place you believe it was located. The reasons why your superiors believe it went missing would also be useful."

He fixed the small Johnson with an inquisitory stare and waited, motionless as his nickname.

[Digital Heroin]

`Look 'ere, I'm inclined to think that if you're in a rush, it can't be such a simple thing, and you'd be willing to give some jockey for the consideration that we're all professionals here, and professionals don't expect to be goin' under the lamp.`

Tyrone manages to say this around a mouthful of food, and to keep the disain from his voice as well. He's not exactly seasoned, but a slide show and lecture notes hardly seem pro.

`But if you're gonna be a dicky die doo about it, well I guess I'll have to settle, once I've got some info about what we're looking to haul away with 'ere.`

[Silverspur_2020]

Sandy supressed the smile that she had managed to squeese some more money out of this guy..."Yeah im in, assuming I am happy with the further details of what you want." With that she simply goes silent, the balls in his court now, and its time to see if he can use it.

[Drain Brain]

The Johnson regards the runners with growing ease, the "bumbling idiot" receding into the background as a guise more resembling a college lecturer surfaces.

"Very well. It seems that we shall progress no further without more information, so here goes." He taps a few keys on his P-Sec and an unpleasant passport-style 2D image appears on the wall depicting a late-middle aged caucasian man. The Johnson clears his throat and enters into a "briefing."

"This man is Robert Borstad, formerly on the household staff of a prominent member of British High Society. Three days ago, Mr Borstad left his employer's home with a satchel full of documents and other items. It is this satchel that you must retrieve.

"Unfortunately, Mr Borstad is no longer in possession of the case, being as how he suffered a mild case of death."

The Johnson looked around for any response to his hard-sought joke, but returned immediately to the briefing when it wasn't forthcoming.

"It would appear that Mr Borstad was taking the case to... someone... and that that individual wanted it urgently, as he travelled at night. On foot. We can safely assume that he was not of sound mind in so doing, because he entered through the Lambeth Containment Zone. From what we can gather, he encountered a gang therein, who pursued Mr Borstad - probably with the intent of robbing him. Various items of CCTV footage show him fleeing into an abandoned building with them in pursuit." Another keystroke, and a 5 second sequence shows a form resembling the man from the photo enter a building, followed by approximately six adolescents dressed in denim and leather clothing.

"In the morning, a high threat response unit found Mr Borstad lying in an alley adjacent to the building, stripped of any possession of worth, directly beneath a fire-escape which has come away from the wall - recently, it would seem."

"We want that case."

[Silverspur_2020]

Listening intently to what is being said Sandy starts thinking.....and then when Johnson is finished giving the brief, she says in a bussinesslike tone of voice, "I think I already know the answer to this question... If we take this job is there any chance you would give us the information as to who these members of high society are? because if we can find out who would want to act against them then we will immediatly have a short list of who might have that case. Also, has the body been confirmed both visually and DNA as Robert Borstad? because it has been known for people to do this sort of thing after having left employment"

[Rakshasa]

The more he saw of the dweeb, and listened to him speak, the more Piper thought there was more to this nondescript man than met the eye. It was almost as though he was putting on an act for the assembled runners. The Irishman had been on enough film sets to recognise a consummate actor when he saw one, and Mr Johnson seemed to be such.

Having already agreed to do the job, Piper felt free to contemplate what the run would entail, despite the lack of actual information. Way back in the early part of the century, there had been several similar cases. A factotum nicking gear, or important papers from the old Royal Household and then selling to the highest bidder. Nothing new there, then.

But getting croaked whilst in the process of nicking, that was new. Borstad was either a patsy and had been set up to acquire the satchel, or he was working alone, despite what the dweeb had said. To Piper's mind the former seemed the more likely. Why else would the man go into the less than salubrious part of town where, allegedly, his body had been found. If he'd been working for himself, he'd have a ready made bolt hole and a ready made way of making the satchel turn into cred sticks. But then, fencing the gear might require him to have a meet where he was found. It'd be easy enough, either way, to pay the young thugs to bump him.

On balance, Piper's gut feeling was that there was a Mr Big, somewhere in the background. A trusted flunkey for the Aristocracy wouldn't know too much about the underworld.

The CCTV footage had seemed familiar to the soldier. Finally he placed it. Warehousing along the Lambeth Bridge Road. Well over two hundred years old, some of them were, despite the various re-developments, and between them was a rabbit warren of streets and alleyways. And, across the river, Horseferry Road, the Embankment and the old MI5 building. not to mention the Ministry of Agriculture. Not that either had anything to do with the run, it simply meant that Piper could visualise the area more clearly.

[Blitz]

:: Having listened quietly from the shadowy corner, the stacks of rubbish and discarded supplies assisting the shadows in concealing her perfectly, Tyen considers her options. ::

:: The money was fair, if he was upfront about the arraingment. If he was holding back, which they all do, then it could turn out to be moot how much the pay was for. Still, the assembled group seemed capable and the job seemed right up her ally. ::

:: The rich were a hotbed of lies, trickery and conspiracy and perhaps these documents would help her even more than the Johnson. Who knows what secrets lie in those pages. The more she thought about that fact alone, the more she was convinced that she, too, would take the job. ::

:: Sliding silently from her hidden spot, the shadows seem to dwell on her before releasing just enough for her to be seen less than a meter from their host. Her silence, making her appear almost out of nowhere. ::

"Da. I too, weell take job."

:: Her accent is heavily russian influenced, and she definately is not a native english speaker. She stands in real leather pants and vest over a charcoal sweater and a long black secure coat. Her boots are unusual, up to the knee in what seems to be waterproof leather with all maner of buckles holding the bottom heavy soles to the boot. Her hair is long and straight and though it shadows her face, her image is impossible to determine due to a pair of black shades and a black mask over her nose and mouth. ::

[Mysterio]

Two women eh? deuce raised his eyebrow at the sight of this mysterious woman I could enjoy this run quite immensely
Not really needing or caring about the money, Deuce lit up another cigarette
Find a simple briefcase, pop a few bad guys, show this team how to do things...too easy

[Digital Heroin]

`You wonts a case? Well that outta be no problem. Y'don't have to worry yourself over that none.`

Tyrone doesn't seem to notice the grim details, but he does. He simply doesn't want to appear bothered. Not that a little gang violence and murder's a new thing to him.

[Rakshasa]

"Looks like you got yourself a Team, Mr Johnson. One way or another." Piper drained his glass as he looked at each of the assembled Company in turn, getting anything between toothy grins and shrugs.

"So now all you have to do is let us get on with it. Unless there's any more intel you can give us first?" Piper eyed the dweeb's bulging briefcase, guessing there would be some hardcopy in there for distribution, and pointedly nodded at it.

[Silverspur_2020]

Sandy sits still... watching everyone else say their piece, this was her chance to evaluate who did what and what they were like. She was happy that the team all seemed to be more professional then amature.... certainly the mage (or whatever she was) that had just stepped out from some sort of cloaking spell.

[Drain Brain]

The Johnson seemed pleased with the outcome, nodding sagely to himself.

"Very well. That being the case, here is all that I can give you." He pulled a small chip case from a pocket and handed it to Sandy, the closest runner. "This chip contains all the information we have access to - mortuary report on Borstad, police report, witness accounts and the CCTV footage. There is a number stored there also at which you can leave reports for me if necesary - although I'd be pleased if you could leave one every 24 hours to update me on your progress." From the same pocket he produced a credstick. "And here is your expense account. Use it wisely. And I think that's all - unless there are any questions?"

[Blitz]

:: Tyen remains motionless and silent, even her breath is hard to distinguish as she waits for the either the party or the johnson to leave. ::

[Mysterio]

Deuce watched as the johnson handed Sandy, seated next to him, the chip and credstick
Lucky it went to her, I think she'd be the only other person here I could somewhat trust..

[Rakshasa]

Piper took out his pocket secretary and opened the small chip slot. "Better all take a copy I expect. Least that way, if anyone gets fragged, we won't lose the intel." He proffered the gadget to the vamp, waiting for her to insert the chip. "Don't know about the rest of you, but I'm happy for the Lady to hold the expense account."

The secretary beeped Download complete.. Piper popped the chip and absently handed it back to the woman as he moved away, calling up the data the Johnson had provided, whilst the rest of the Team made their own arrangements. As a long serving soldier, O'Toole knew the value of good intelligence. What the chip provided wouldn't be the best in terms of being up to date, but it would, at least, be a starting place.

A few screens in Piper let out a guffaw, eliciting several strange looks from the others. It was the signature on the post mortem docket Dr.Bunsen Honeydew! Old, kids TriD had immediately sprung to mind. But that had been in another country, and besides, the wench was long dead.

Piper looked up, the others were similarly engaged in going over the data, but there was no sign of the dweeb and Piper, for one, hadn't noticed him leave. Yep, much more to that man than meets the eye, all right.

[Blitz]

:: Tyen takes a few silent steps closer and copies Piper's moves to secure a copy of the data. As she slips the pock sec, it begins to cycle through it's three it's overly thorough scan programs to check all of the data packets to ensure that no virus or spyware sneak through. ::

:: Again she speaks in that quiet, low voice. ::

"Dis place ees not secure. I have better alterniteev."

:: With that, she pulls out a small stack of chips, very low grade and one time use only. With a thought, her hand opens and each one levitates to a member of the party::

"Directions on disk. Meet in 1 hour."

:: She then silently slips out the door and is almost immediately hidden in the shadows as she exits the bar. ::

[Rakshasa]

Chips with vinegar, chips with ketchup, chips with just a bit of salt, but floating chips, that was new. Piper caught the piece of silicon as it floated toward him. And I thought the dweeb was strange.

The new information chip, coming from someone he didn't know and therefore didn't trust, meant the secretary ran its own virus check as Piper activated the program. Not particularly sophisticated, being a download from his last posting's mainframe, Piper had used it on occasion and, so far, his pocket secretary hadn't thrown a wobbly, so he trusted it. The dark female's chip seemed to hold just what he expected, directions to an uptown condo area. Piper memorised the directions, popped the disc and crushed it between finger and thumb. "See you all later." Piper headed toward the door, through the still crowded bar and out into the cold night air. Thankfully the rain had let up, leaving an unusual freshness instead of the all pervading smell of crap.

An hour, the oddly accented woman had said, which would make it close to the witching hour. Appropriate. The Irishman smiled to himself as he made his way uptown.

Going back to the intel from the dweeb as he walked, O'Toole considered the problem. The Lambeth Containment Area was a place he knew, if only vaguely. A half dozen years ago, when he'd been a lance stationed at Catterick, there'd been some trouble there. The army had sent in a mob to help the local Authorities and Piper had been included. It had been a mess. Over a hundred civilians, well, gutter trash to be honest, had met their end along with seven of Piper's battalion. Why a whole battalion? The powers that be thought it was a good result. Piper knew otherwise. Still, it had given him another stripe, another step on the ladder, so to speak.

As he walked Piper wondered whether old Sal and her daughter were still alive in that rat hole. He hoped so.

[Silverspur_2020]

Downloading both the directions to the new meet and the info from the Johnson, Sandy also tells the pocket sec to ring Pete outside to let him know she was on her way out. "I assume everyone has their own methods for getting there, so I shall see in one hour." with that she stands up and leaves the room, looking calm and organised and not looking back.

As soon as she sees Pete sat in the cab outside, she gives him the directions... and starts reading through the data available to her to see what is useful.

[Mysterio]

Not wanting to push his luck with this Sandy chick, Deuce decides against asking if she'd like to ride with him
She has her own way, I like that...
Using his subvocal mike and phone Deuce calls up his personal bodyguard Fist, who, on occasion serves as his driver.
Exiting the room without saying a word to anyone, Deuce finds his limo parked out front. Getting in, he presses the button to the intercom
"Fist, just drive for a bit..."
Though the limo may not have much in the lines of offence or defence, it did come equip with a few minor gadgets. A small terminal in the back allowed Deuce to download the info needed. Giving Fist the address, Deuce opens the mini bar and pours himself a real drink
None of that drek I had back there

[Rakshasa]

Queensway hadn't changed much in the last half century or so. Still a main thoroughfare and still bounded on both sides by six story buildings, constructed of brick and stone back in the late eighteen hundreds. The data chip had given the address of Prince's House, once the habitat of the Meteorological Office but now split, floor by floor, into one and two bed habs with a fleet of small offices on the ground floor.

According to the data, the entrance Piper sought was around the back, down an almost inevitable narrow alleyway. If the frontage had been brightly lit and well kept, the backside was just that. Someone's backside, with litter and the remains of human degradation smeared on the walls, added to by the cardboard hovels.

Piper shouldered his way through an opening in a tattered security fence and found himself at the head of a flight of stone steps. The chip had indicated that the `safe house' was a basement, so the steps looked promising. He headed down.

[Digital Heroin]

If Tyrone's finding anything odd about the floating chip, he doesn't say anything. Of course before he can point out he's got transit, everyone seem to be going their own way. That's likely for the better anyway, for the moment. He'll play the fact he's got more than one vehicle close for the moment.

`Anyone wot wants a ride I've got a car a block up.`

That said, he pockets the directional chip, and heads out to his cab. He doesn't bother with a map in heading to the locale, though it does occur to him he's being awefully trusting in following the word of someone who concealed themselves through the early part of the meet, in going to a safehouse he doesn't know isn't a trap.

[Rakshasa]

Under many of the older buildings in central London there are cellars. Some were constructed as servants quarters, some as wine cellars and some, like the ones under Prince's House, as secure bunkers for secret document storage or even non-standard prisons.
The English, way back in the late 1800's, were paranoid about any foreign infiltration, and to an Englishman of the time, anyone living south of Dover or east of Harwich, was not to be trusted one iota. Not too sure about the folk on the other side of the Atlantic either, for that matter.

The converted cellar complex which confronted Piper as he pushed the rotting door out of his way, smelt of putrefaction and the long disused. A really dark and oppressive environment. Big windows, in each of the rooms the Irishman entered were barred like a prison and so filthy from the elements that they were opaque. Cement floors and rough, spalling brickwork walls completed the impression more of a place of incarceration than a safe haven for a Team of Runners.

Until Piper came to a new door, well at least newer than the timber ones he had already opened. The walls had obviously been refurbished; steel reinforced and brick Piper guessed. Inside low wattage bulbs illuminated the interior. The prickling sensation along Piper's nape indicated some sort of standing wave, a fair amount of security he guessed again.

Although the room was large, plenty big enough for the Team, even with two Trolls in their number; Must have knocked four into one. there seemed to be very little furniture. In fact all Piper could see was an extremely beat to shit wood table and a stack of rusty folding chairs in the corner.

A single cot with a surprisingly clean looking stack of linens folded on top of it completed the ensemble. There was one good point however. A rather expansive bathroom and shower area, the sort of facility that a work gang might have if they were on-site for a month or two. Several toilet stalls and a shower area with three shower heads.

The Master Sargent, like all Grunts everywhere, looked around for a kitchen; somewhere to brew up at least. But he drew a blank. Didn't really matter of course. With full water electricity and matrix access as well as a spliced trid line and the only obviously expensive item. A brand new, top of the line trid unit, bringing in a microwave and a small stove wouldn't be a problem.

Piper spun around, Beretta appearing in his left hand, at a noise behind him. He immediately relaxed, recognising the Troll from the table at the Siren. "Seems cosy enough." The gun slipped inside its shoulder holster as though it had never appeared. "Not too good on the sleeping arrangements though"

[Blitz]

:: Tyen steps from the darkness of the shadows once again, yet this time, it almost seems as if the shadows recede from the corner as she does so. She smiles shily as she removes the mask and glasses, revealing her youthful features for the first time to those who have arrived. ::

"It is safe, but not much home, I am sorry."

[Mysterio]

The limo pulls up out front and Deuce steps out.
"Keep in contact sir, a neighbourhood like this one..." says Fist, Deuce's right hand man.
"Don't worry, I can take care of myself. The only thing I worry about here is getting some disease from this dump" with that the elf and his bodyguard chuckle.
Deuce makes his way around back and down the steps Here goes nothing.. and he pushes open the door into the cellar meeting area. He looks around at the place and does nothing to contain his look of disgust at the joint. If they think I'm going to stay here, sleeping on those cots...they got to be fraggin' kidding
He tries to put on a fake smile for those who had already arrived ahead of him.."Folks..." he says with a nod

[Drain Brain]

Stumbling through the semi-dark, the little decker from the Siren enters the room, scratching at his short blonde hair. He tightly hugs what looks to be a deck-carry case to his chest.

"Greetings," he says in German accented English, "They call me Bandwidth Bob, but Bob will suffice."

He moves quickly to the terminal and begins inspecting Tyen's connection.

[Rakshasa]

Slowly, over the next quarter hour, the rest of the Team filtered into the large, but under furnished room. Two Trolls, two Elves and three Humans. A nice mix with no natural racial discord. As to their respective talents, well that remained to be seen. Piper guessed that he and the Trolls were the heavy mob, the witch was…a witch. The female Elf? Probably the `Face' of the Team and the other one, the dandy? Small, quick and a ladies man if Piper was any judge; he probably had some hidden talent or the Johnson wouldn't have made contact with him. And finally the Decker, doing what a Decker does best, joy riding in the Matrix.

"We'll need Comms I'm thinking. No use trying to use a cel in a combat situation A set of micro-beads on a secure frequency would be good." Piper leant against a wall and opened a debate on how they should Run. He looked around. "I've got my own but who else needs one?"


Outside, in the night, the denizens of the London streets went about their nefarious business. A little robbery here, a murder there. A second story man, or rather Dwarf, fell to his death unnoticed, his scream just one of many in the night. A woman knifed her Pimp, leaving him gurgling his lifeblood on a shit covered pavement, his wallet now in the woman's reticule, a relieved smile creasing her world worn face as she went toward the bus station at Victoria. She wont make it. Muggers will take her money, her life and her body, not necessarily in that order, long before the bus could whisk her back to her home in Great Yarmouth.

Along the Embankment, past the recently sandblasted the Palace of Westminster and the dwarfed ancient Big Ben clock tower, the odd scream can be heard in the dark, rain laden air. No one in their right mind would be abroad in the early hours of a new day in good old London Town. But then, most of the night crawlers could hardly be considered as being in their `right mind'.

The roundabout at the junction of the Embankment and Horesferry Road is ablaze with the burning wreck of an old Honda people carrier, a fitting end some would say. Its bright flames illuminating a particularly gruesome scene and anyone looking will quickly turn away, retching.

South, across the Lambeth Bridge, the Barrier. Designed to keep people in or out? No one really knows any more, nor do they really care. It's enough that it's there.

At the southern end of the bridge, a second barrier, daubed with graffiti and ..other things.. is a more visual barrier to the would be thrill seeker venturing into the Lambeth Containment Area, better known as `The Squeeze'.




This post has been edited by Rakshasa: Sep 11 2004, 05:24 PM

[Kurukami]

Stone moved smoothly into the room just behind Bob, causing him to startle slightly. His dark eyes, shadowed beneath a trollish brow, scanned the corners of the room. Without a word, he walked the perimeter of the chamber, peering behind shower partitions and into nooks, before settling against the far wall. "This will do for discussion."

He leaned against the aged brick, taking position where he could watch the door and not be immediately noticed.

[Blitz]

:: Tyen cocks her head to the side and smiles slightly at Stone. His caution reminding her of her father's paranoia to some small degree. Then her light grey eyes turns towards Piper. ::

"I have communication gear. Rating 4 encryption. I wish for more, but that will come with time and money."

[Silverspur_2020]

Sandy looks around at the essembled group once more, taking in the professional work atmosphere she feels like these are people that can be relied on when the drek comes down.

"I have my own communications eqipment as well, but there is no harm in abusing that expense account for whatever we can if anybody doesnt have their own." Looking around, she thinks how much nicer her safe house is... but then thinks that it may not be quiet so secure to protect as this one baring in mind it only has one way in and out.

"So, anybody had a read of the information chip yet then? anybody got any ideas?

[Drain Brain]

The diminutive German looked up at Sandy, then surveyed the others.

" I have gone throught the contents of the chip thoroughly. The Police Mortician's report is comprehensive and accurate - from what I know of medicine, all the wounds suffered are in keeping with a fall of the described nature. The actual constabulary report on the incident is as thin as one would expect from this "Landet Containment Zone," mostly relying on the feed from the cameras on the wall near the bridge. I managed to cross index the images of the so-called gangers persuing the target, but came up negative on SIN checks or police records - from what I could access in one hour. The "witness accounts" that he spoke of actually ammount to nothing more than the officer arriving on the scene in the morning, which was uninformative to say the least, and a drunk from nearby - but from the recording he was high, drunk, or both - since he said that Mr Borstad had blue skin... which he didn't."

[Rakshasa]

Blue? Probably cyanotic, which implies the perp was suffocated before he hit the ground, assuming the blue wasn't an effect of alcoholic haze. Piper knew the witness was, by definition, untrustworthy, but there was the chance that his observation was right. Which meant that the Gangers, whoever they were, might well have despatched the thief before upending him, just to be on the safe side.

Something nagged at the Irishman, about where the man was found. Within sight of the CCTV mounted on the bridge. Gangers would know where the surveillance cameras were. So the logical conclusion was that the hit was meant to be seen. Why?

None of this seemed right. It smelt like ten day old fish. But who was he to care. Get the case and get paid. Don't worry about the why's and wherefore's.

"We need to find the Gangers. Which means we mount an expedition into the Squeeze."

[Mysterio]

Not caring to sit down anywhere and risk getting the filthj on his suit, Deuce slowly wanders around the room, puffing away on his cigarette, occasionally flicking the ash onto the floor
None one will notcie, it can't get any dirtier in here
"Well ladies and gentlemen, I will for one say that I'd be most interested in what was exactly in that case, as well as any sort of pet projects this Borman..Borster..brohman..."
"Borstad," says Sandy. clearly annoyed.
"Thank you dear," replies Deuce with a quick smile, "Anyways, I think once we know what was in there, that may help figure out who'd want it."

This post has been edited by Mysterio: Sep 12 2004, 08:34 PM

[Rakshasa]

"I agree, it might be useful to know the case contents. But, more importantly, it's whereabouts is what we're after." He leant on the table and looked at Bob. "See if you can check out Borstad's employer's home. There's a note of it in the Police report. Find out what calls were made from the premises, say from four days ago. Who made the calls, if possible, but certainly who got the calls. That may lead to a Fixer who organised a hit or, maybe, directly to the Gangers."

The Irishman paused, looking at the gadgetry around the room. "Will any of this stuff enhance the CCTV footage? Close-ups of the Gangers faces could be useful. And any shots of the fire escape. Was it pulled away because of rust, and a hasty retreat went wrong, or was it detached purposely to make it look like an accident.

We need to know whether this was a random attack or a planned hit. If the former, our job is going to be harder. Scattered Gangers who will have ditched the case or sold it, contents and all. Or they might have just scattered the contents to the four winds. Either way, they'll be hard to find.

If the latter, then whoever took the case will, almost certainly, have passed it on by now. They won't have been working for the Establishment, because that's who our Johnson is probably working for, seeing as he has access to so much information.

Might also be an idea to confirm the contact number the Johnson gave us. `Whitehall 1212' seems to ring a bell. Wasn't it the number of Scotland Yard back in the early nineteen hundreds."

The soldier stood erect and went to the back of the room, pulling a pair of folding chairs from the pile and creaking them open. He placed them against the wall, facing the door, and sat on one, heaving his feet up onto the other. He smiled. "As for me, I'm gonna catch forty winks. Tomorrow's going to be a hard day."

[Blitz]

:: Watches the exchange of idea's and viewpoints with a sort of childlike curiosity. ::

"I think it would be foolish to think this was accident or random. Important papers, servant of rich and powerful, convenient death caught on camera. I t'ink we start with employer. Research their interests to see what may be important, the rich always hide secrets, but rarely well enough."

:: With her last comment, a truly devious smile creeps across the soft features of her face. ::

[Drain Brain]

Bob snorts, patting his deck and running a lead from it to the trid station. "If you recall from the video, the fire-escape is around the other side of the building - even such extreme telescopic lenses cannot bend around corners. As to the image enhancement, it is already done - how else do you think I did my initial checks? If anyone has any familiarity with gangs in this city I can pull them up for your looking..."

Moments later, a number of windows open on the trid screen, depicting youths in leather and denim, plenty of steel chain adorning their attire.

"While you do that, I'll see what I can find out from the telephone company."

A few minutes pass as the runners look over the pictures. Bob jacks out finally with a discontented sigh.

"Bad news I'm afraid. It seems that the address on file for Mr Borstad's employer is actually a fast-food joint in a place called "Bricks-don?" It would appear that either we have been lied to, or that whoever his employer really was has enough pull to get records changed posthumously so it does not come back to bite him in the ass..."

[Silverspur_2020]

"Well I will start checking up on the gangers if you like, maybe they had some markings on their clothes to affilate them with a particular gang? maybe it was a hit and they were just dressed up as gang bangers? I could have a look around the area and ask some of the local gangs if they know of those people." With that Sandy brushes her hands over her skirt to straighten it out before she sits down.

[Blitz]

"I can check into Mr. Borstad and his employment history further. I have a few sources that might turn up something interesting."

:: She almost laughs to herself, this is what she does in her spare time. Researching the Rich and Powerful who hide their secrets. The job had to be a hasty one and shouldn't be too hard to crack. ::

[Kurukami]

"I know a bit about the gangs hereabout," Stone commented. "It may be that I could identify the ones what did this... or at the least pick up some clue as to who they were pretending to be. I cannot help but think that, if they were in false colors within the boundaries of that gang, they might have found themselves in a spot of trouble."

He levered himself away from the wall, glanced at his wrist, and moved over to scan the trid screen for details. Narrowing his eyes at the images there, he glanced up from the screen towards Sandy. "It is early yet. I do not know what methods you use, but I mean to go and see what rats fall out when I shake their nests."

[Silverspur_2020]

Smiling at the invitation from the military looking guy, "That depends on your methods big guy... I was going to go for a subtle approach, but it depends on what we can come up with together! either way I dont think its appropriate for me to go to those kind of places wearing this. They would try to eat me alive! I will have to pop back to my place first to change into something more fitting. Do you have your own transport? or do you want a lift?"Getting the answers she needs, she picks up the pictures of the gangers and heads back to her place to get changed and pick up anything she thinks she might need.



Walking into the flat she looks around and checks to see if she has any messages. Concious of the fact that Stone might be waiting for her, she heads into the bedroom and opens the well stocked wardrobes.
Putting the phone on speaker only so nobody can see her she makes two phonecalls, the first to the pleasent and professional Jack Hammond and the second to the smutty Blue Sam. These two people were at different ends of the spectrum but could both server her a simular purpose tonight. Sending them copies of the pictures, she asks them if they can find out for her which gangs they may be or if indeed they are real gangers. Hoping if they have shown their faces in any clubs or pubs then one of these two will know about it!
By the end of the calls she has picked out a few things that she may be needing over the next few days to save comming back. On the bed there is now a holdall with a varity of clothes, both for slumming it in gang areas and rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she is now wearing typical gang affilate clothes... Studded Sythleather Jacket and Matching tight leather trousers, with black army style Doc Martins with flames painted on. Under the Jacket she has her Colt in a holster with a full clip of ammunition. Her makeup instead of being subtle and stylish is now colourful and draws attention, as is her spikey hair and long earings.

Down in the underground garage, she throws her holdall in the back of the Landrover and pulls out into the street, heading back to meet Stone.

[Mysterio]

Not too amused witht he way this 'Stone' fellow was getting along with the young Sandy, Deuce flicks the cigarette butt to the ground and steps it out. Starightening out his jacket and giving his neck a little crack, he stands up straight.
Well then...
"I can check into Mr. Borstad and his employment history further. I have a few sources that might turn up something interesting." says the other girl in the group. Ah, I'll show you Ms Sandy..
"Good idea! I'll help you," says Deuce as he walks over to the mysterious woman, "My name is Deuce.."

[Kurukami]

Silly gel, Stone thought, straddling his BMW Blitzen at the designated meeting place. I'm more than a meter taller than her and, from the looks of that fey frame, outweigh her by a factor of ten. And yet she still thinks she can give me a ride?

He snorted at the mental image of squeezing his three-meter frame into a tiny passenger compartment and swung off of his cycle. The troll-modified bike stood almost a meter and a half at the saddle, and massed more than some of the subcompacts on the London streets these days, but it was nonetheless one of the only vehicles he could comfortably use. Bloody British automotive lack of headroom...

Headlights shone in the distance. Perhaps Sandy had finally decided to make her entrance.

[Silverspur_2020]

Sandy pulls up alongside Stone on his massive motorcycle, and with a sly smile she says "Well there's plenty of room in here if you change your mind!" wondering if he would take the harmless joke the right way... "Sorry I took so long, just had to pick up a few toys that we might find helpful over the next few days. You lead and I'll follow..." and with that she follows the man mountain further into the city and into gang terratory.

[Blitz]

:: Tyen passes a critical eye over the dandy and a single eyebrow is raised. However, she saves any smart assed replies, choosing silence to assist the group dynamic. ::

"You are welcome to come, but please be subtle if possible. Some contacts don't do well with... enthusiasm."

:: Opting to take her more sensible transportation, she leads him out to a largish vehicle shrouded with an all weather tarp. Unlocking the latch holding the tarp over the SUV, she pulls it off and rolls it up in a nice tight little package revealing a new Nissan Brumby. It has been repainted to a matte black to better blend into the night, and seems to have a nice sensor pack attached, but other than that, it's pretty stock. ::

"We go to Pep first. Best decker in London..much better than "Bob" (which comes out sounding more like Bub). He should help get us starting place and base information we can use to pump others for what we need to know."

[Rakshasa]

In the British Army you learn to sleep when and where ever. No sooner had Piper closed his eyes than he was asleep. Some internal clock woke him at around three in the morning. The low lights still glowed and, apart from the susurration of the Decker breathing whilst still floating in Cyberspace, everything had gone quiet. Might have told me they were going. He thought as he uncurled from his makeshift bed, stood up and stretched out the kinks. The TriD caught his eye, still playing the downloaded data the Decker had installed. Casually he reviewed it, wondering what the rest were up to.

"Umar? It's O'Toole…….Yeah, I know it's 3am, but I need a favour." Piper had dialled the private number of Corporal Umar, one of the Quartermaster's at the Woolwich Arsenal. He waited for Umar to stop ranting on and the inevitable "What now?"

"I need to use your ID to get some information off the mainframe at Catterick. Just wanted to let you know. I'll route it around a bit." Perhaps it was the fact that he'd been woken up in the early hours but Umar grunted and ended the call. If he remembered the conversation later….well, what the hell.

Confirming the necessary codes for the mainframe, Piper called it from the TriD and, using Umar's ID, got to work searching for the most recent traffic in Special Ops. His search, using the Johnson's data chip as a starting parameter, should throw up some useful information, he felt sure. Maybe even an insight into what all the fuss was about.

An hour later, his eyes bulging, Piper took a wet and vacated the `safe house' in search of a cup of tea and a wedge. He'd seen an `all nighter' on the corner of High Holborn, by the Tube station, and reckoned it would be the best bet.

[Mysterio]

"He should help get us starting place and base information we can use to pump others for what we need to know."

"Anything you say my dear," and Deuce flashes a quick smile, "It just feels nice to be runnin' with someone with a bit of class." and with that he gets in her vehicle.

[Drain Brain]

Piper:
Digging through the Catterick database is almost a total waste of time. With the quartermaster's access codes, the only relevant piece of information he managed to get was a requesition note for one Borstad, R (Pvt), for a replacement Bergen, dated June 7th 2051. Is it the same guy? That's a good question...

Stone:
Waiting for the fashion-conscious elf gives Stone a chance to peruse the hardcopy pictures of the gangers that Bob had printed off. Although he had spent time enforcing the will of the Seoulpa Rings, his interaction with the "little" gangs of London had not been excessive - but it just so happened that he recognised this bunch.

With their Denim-topped leathers and the eccesive use of chain adornments, it was clear that (whoever these folk actually were) they were utilising the colours of the Rattlers, a gang native to the squeeze.

According to Stone's memory, the 'Rings had paid the Rattlers some two years ago to run a distraction scam on the local police whilst their own personnel ensured the safe passage of some cargo through Lambeth. Although the Rattlers usually keep to the old underground tunnels, they were happy to come up above and run amuk - especially for the fee they received.

Tyen:
Pep was his usual, mechanical self. Although a wiz in the 'trix, his people skills were famously lacking. Once the requirements were made clear he dove in without another word.

Half an hour later, he re-surfaced for coffee and donuts - and to pass on the fruits of his travails.

"Well... the pictures came up negative. Met-Gang watch tags the colours as a Tubey-gang called the Rattlers, but facial turns up nothing. The principal's name "Borstad" turns up a list as long as my arm, but narrowing the search perameters for personal specifics and probable fields of vocation gives us a couple of options." He took a big gob-ful of donut and spoke through it. "One, there's Robert James Borstad. Works for the Foreign office. He's a junior flunky - a coffee boy - and does shitty work for shitty pay. Lives with his parents in Holburn. Two, Robert Oliver Edward Borstad, formerly of Appledore in Devon, now works as a Major Domo-type-thingy for some pixie Duke or Knight or something name of Justin Carmichael. Those are the only two who appear in the Government Employment listings - the second one only because he was employed on the basis of his previous status as a military-trained guard at the Commons."

[Kurukami]

A quick call from his earbud phone had been enough to inquire after a brief meeting with Crow. The reply had been positive, and Stone led the way east without explanation.

The drive along the Highway from central London, at this time of night, had scarcely taken any time at all. Stone piloted the Blitzen just past the intersection of Newell Street and Commercial Road, and pulled off to the side. Sandy's Land Rover slid in to the curb behind him quietly, and she got out as he was dismounting the cycle.

"Limehouse?" the fey girl asked quietly. "What'll we find here?"

"Information, I hope," Stone replied. "I recognized the gang's colors from those pictures. Those patterns are worn by a group calling themselves the Rattlers -- a gang that usually stays down in the tunnels beneath the city. What I do not know is precisely where underground their turf might be, or what their motivation might be in this case. That is what brings us here."

After a quick look about, he led Sandy briskly away from the vehicles. Several minutes later, they climbed the front steps of a not-quite-crumbling townhouse. Stone knocked four times on the door with gloved knuckles, and waited patiently. A minute or so passed before the door creaked open a few centimeters. A bloodshot eye could be seen above a tusk through the gap, peering upwards at Stone's bulk. A reedy tenor grumbled, "Yeah? Wha'd'yew want?"

"I am Stone. Crow expects me."

"Huh. Stone. Yeah, you're OK. C'mon in." The door opened further, revealing an orkish countenance and a lean, muscled form, moving aside to allow him inside. The other stopped abruptly as Sandy came into view behind Stone. "Wai' a sec. Oo's the bint?"

Stone's hand flashed forward towards the ork's face. Sandy, who looked as though she had been about to take umbrage at the remark, froze as the broad hand easily gripped both sides of the ork's jaw. Stone appeared to exert no effort, but the other's face went ashen. "'The bint' is an associate of mine, and you will speak of her respectfully if you wish to keep speaking. Understand?"

He released his hold and stared at the ork. The other hesitated, with the flash of panic still hovering in his eyes, then nodded and gestured back into the building. "It's this way, miss," he said politely, and led the pair of them towards a descending staircase.

[Rakshasa]

Even after all these years, the London Underground, better known as the Tube, still runs, well almost. A lot of the stations have been closed down since the Awakening and even more after the surge, but High Holborn's lights burn bright. The original tunnels under the Thames have been augmented by now reinforced vacuum sealed tunnels of the `deep tube'.

The trains run in a sleeve of non-conductive plastic and no living thing can survive outside of the sleeve. Passengers, therefore, can travel in comparative safety, providing their journey finishes before 10pm. After that, the travellers aren't always 9 to 5 commuters, if you know what I mean.

Piper headed down into the Station, bought an `all day' and boarded one of the older trains, heading for the last stop on the old Victoria line by way of the Piccadilly line, changing at Green Park.

The `last stop' officially, was Pimlico. Piper well knew that the line carried on under the river to Vauxhall. And that's exactly where he wanted to be. When the train pulled in to Green Park, Piper had several minutes to wait for a connection on the Victoria and took the opportunity to review the data from Mr Johnson.

ALL OUT! END OF LINE! The sonorous voice of a station announcement, insistent and, Piper knew, shortly to be accompanied by a none too alert Guard wandering through the carriages to make sure no one was left aboard. The Irishman waited in the half shadow against the small single pneumatic door close to the driver's cab. When he heard the driver's door slam he moved, opening the opposite door and dropping down onto the dark side of the train. Immediately he turned south, sure in his own mind that there was no power on past this point.

The walk along the barren tunnel, rat infested and dark, was, of its self a small nightmare, but Piper was used to night patrols and romped under the Thames. Vauxhall Station was a mess. Filtered early dawn light permeated through gratings ahead and the soldier could hear a few howls. He pulled his Remington Roomsweeper, just in case.

Treading carefully over the litter and crumbled concrete from years of decay, Piper forced his way through rusting iron gates onto the Albert Embankment. A few interested parties watched as he crossed it. He jogged down Parry Street and headed south-west along the South Lambeth Road, eyes everywhere.

His destination lay before him. The last resting place of the ill fated Equerry. Time to examine the scene of the crime.

[Blitz]

"Pep, they might not have been involved with the Government exactly...but this at least gives us a place to start. Can you get us some info on both of them? Phone bills, home addresses, family contact information, SIN, that sort of thing?"

[Silverspur_2020]

Sandy gets out of the Landrover and knows that this is Stones area of expertise, so decides to to let him get on with it. After all, this meant she could save her talents for when muscles werent always the right key.

Stepping in through the door behind Stone she hears the comment of "bint" and simply ignores it... its not something that troubles her as she has been called far worse in her life! that and she was sure she would be able to "persude" him to let her in as well. Pleasently suprised by his reaction she keeps quiet, knowing that this is all part of a game he is playing.

On the subject of games, she thinks that at this moment in time in might be better to keep quiet and look pretty... that way you can run a good cop (her) bad cop (him) routine later on. She just hoped he had the common sence to realise she was doing this and not simply being a waste of space.

[Rakshasa]

The CCTV footage on the data chip had shown Borstad running into the dilapidated building which now confronted Master Sargent O'Toole. The front door, what there was left of it, hung from one rusty hinge, pulled half closed. There was every likelihood that the place was used as a squat on a regular basis and that, probably, there would be a few occupants at this hour of the morning. Piper stowed his shotgun in its holster and pulled his Beretta. It was better for close work and he was used to it. The weapon had been with him a long time.

Shouldering his way past the door, gun trained forward, the Irishman carefully lifted the fractured wood back into place, cutting the dawn light by half. It was still light enough to see along the hallway. A flight of stairs on the left, just past a closed door. Another door, also closed on the right and the hall extending into a short passage past the staircase with a third door at its end.

If Borstad was being pursued it was unlikely that he'd try any of the doors. Going into a room would certainly trap him in an indefensible large area. If what the Catterick mainframe had shown was correct, Robert Borstad had been Military and even basic training would have made him go up the stairs. To shoot down on an enemy, particularly if they can only come at you one at a time, is the correct tactic; if you can secure such a position.

Ignoring the doors, but letting his hearing be his backup, Piper climbed the stairs. Instantly he hit the wall, bringing his gun to bear on the sudden flurry above him. Dull grey wings beating at the cold morning air as pigeons took flight, disturbed by the intrusion, relaxed Piper's trigger finger.

The landing was unsafe, or looked like it. Holed floorboards and most of the balustrade gone, probably for firewood. Broken windows at either end had been the escape hatches for the birds, and the dawn sunlight made the peeling wallpaper seem almost homely. Two doors, separated by a short landing, a third door to the right and another flight leading upward.

Again, Piper ignored the doors, taking the second flight more rapidly. There was no knowing when the inhabitants might poke their noses out to see what was going on. The upper landing, similar to the first, but only two doors. What interested Piper, though, was the push bar door at the back of the building. It hung ajar on what was left of its frame. A fire escape door. He looked out quickly, and wished he hadn't. Open air where the steel steps should have been and a forty foot drop onto solid looking concrete. Piper knelt down, holding the wall, and ran his hand along the external brickwork, feeling for the bolt holes where the escape ladder had been fixed. He found one and, with exaggerated care, poked his head out to take a look.

Bright shiny metal, true already browning with the first signs of rust from several days of rain, but clearly showing signs of having been cut through. Mr Borstad had, probably, plunged to his death from here, but not by accident!

[Rakshasa]

Preternatural, that's what his personnel file said. Piper's acute hearing caught the faint creak of a floorboard on the landing below. Something wicked this way comes, methinks. He pulled himself upright and moved to the side of the fire door, his back against the wall. Sure enough, a slim shadow was sliding along the far wall of the stairwell, cast by the rising sun streaming in through the window on the lower landing,

The Irishman held himself ready. Fight or interrogation, Ganger's choice. The shadow took form as a slim individual wearing a poncho and a headscarf edged up along the stairs.

"That's far enough!" Piper held the Beretta low, pointing at the figure as it stiffened at the sound of his voice, hands rising in time honoured tradition.

"Didn't mean nufin Mister! Do..Don't shoot. Just lookin, 'sall." The figure cowered visibly.

"Keep those hands where I can see em and get up here!" Piper trained his gun as Poncho made a slow ascent. "Take the scarf off, let me see your face!"

Quivering on the top landing, slim hands removed the scrap of cloth, allowing dull brown hair to tumble forward across a grimy but obviously female face. "Whatch doin' 'ere Mister. My Jace catches yer, e'll dis yer sure."

"You live here then and Jace is your man?" Piper extended his hearing range, trying to catch any other movement in the building, apart from the girl's heartbeat and the cooing of odd pigeons.

"Yeh, nearly a year. Good squat. Don't get much trouble. Jace sees ta that." The female made no pretence of giving Piper a hard look, summing him up.

"Like the other night? When them teeners chased that man in here?"

"'Sright. Six of em there was. But they didn't get far. Jace dun fer one on em and the others scarpered. Wern't their turf anyways."

"And the man they was…were chasing? What happened to him?"

"Dunno. Me 'n Jace lives on the first floor. Don't come up here ofen." She stopped as Piper moved slightly, his gun twitching. "But the man did." She added hurriedly.

"But he didn't come down again." Piper glanced at the fire exit.

"'Sright. Heard a scream though. Reckoned he musta bought it."

Piper moved to the head of the stairs. "Go back down. Get in your room and stay there." He waved the Beretta to add emphasis and the girl retreated the way she had come. Piper followed, waiting for the door of the room at the foot of the stairs to slam shut after her before he descended to the ground floor.

Heading back to Vauxhall, Piper reviewed what he had found out. Not much, if the truth be known. Just enough to know that the death of the flunky was part of a wider plot and, therefore, the Team were no nearer to finding the case.

[Mysterio]

Watching the decker eat almost made Deuce lose his own lunch. This guy is disgusting Deuce tries hard to not show his displeasure in this dump of a place. But at least the slob has managed to get us something to start with
Before the decker heads back off into the matrix, Deuce gives him a half smile "Your help is greatly appreciated..."

[Rakshasa]

It was just coming up six o clock as Piper stepped out of Holborn Station again. The fresh smell of morning combined with the puke and urine of dossers and winos made for an interesting olfactory sensation, but the Irishman ignored it. The `all nighter' had fresh rolls, still warm and Piper bought a dozen along with a slab of what, allegedly, was butter and a half kilo of cheese. If no one at the safe house was hungry, it wouldn't matter, Piper would eat the lot. Catching a litre of black soycaf to go, he headed down Queensway.

"Breakfast!" Piper announced as he made his way through the passage and into the squat. He reckoned shouting that food had arrived was as good as any way of saying his entrance was friendly.

[Drain Brain]

Tyen and Deuce

Pep wades back into the matrix for mere moments before paper starts spewing from beneath his desk. He jacks out and retrieves it. "Eugh, hardcopy..."

He hands it to the Russian. "R.J lives in Camberwell with his parents - address there. Phone line listed, with most calls being to work - his superiors and contemporaries. R.E has no listed address - means it's protected or gone from the records, same for phone and familial details. There's almost nothing on him. Bank records suspended, phone unidentified - if there is anything, it's buried under more ice than it took to sink the Olympic."

Stone and Sandy

Making their way down through various non-descript tunnels, the Troll and the Elf finally come to a room with but a single occupant. Leaning against the far wall, Crow speaks quietly... "Well?"

Piper

Bob jacks out of the matrix at the sound of Piper's entry. "Food... good. I have not eaten in hours." The little german starts stuffing his face at the first opportunity. "The others are not back yet. Tyrone should be around here somewhere. We should all go find them, I think. I don't know what they will have found, if anything, but I for one don't want them going off alone and snagging the bag for themselves and cutting us out of the deal....."

[Blitz]

:: Tyen looks at Deuce, her opinion on which is their target is overly obvious. ::

"Thanks Pep..."

:: She smiles at the ultra-geek. ::

"This is going harder than expected. Pep, do me favor please. Post on CTI, CoverTech, ERIPSNOC and DT about him. Someone's got to have heard something. Be slick about it."

:: Turning to Deuce again, she nods towards the door. ::

"Call me Pep..as soon as something is known."

[Silverspur_2020]

Looking "the crow" up and down Sandy can certainly see how he got his name, dressed all in black with scabby greasy hair he looked like he was trying to copy a film from many years ago... which strangely enough had the same title as his name!

She pauses briefly, waiting to see if Stone wanted to take the lead.

[Rakshasa]

Dribs and drabs, that's all Piper had for seven hours of traipsing the streets of Lambeth. Borstad had been a soldier, of that he was sure. Soldiers, particularly those who had brown nosed in the Service, often became Equerries when they were demobbed. The better ones stayed on and duly received their Knighthood. Hard luck on Borstad, however good he was, his chance of becoming a `Sir' had ended face down on solid concrete.

"Show me the faces of the kids that did for our mark." Piper handed another buttered roll to Bandwidth Bob, still chewing on the last one. The decker brought up the photo gallery and, one by one, Piper scrutinised each face. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but he knew he'd know when he saw it.

The eighth kid made him pause. Back in Lambeth, even in the filtered light, there were similarities. Bone structure of the face perhaps. The colour of the hair, though as filthy as she had been that was a slim comparison. But the slight frame, the thin bones of the limbs. A family member almost certainly.

So her brother, maybe, had been on the street that night, chasing the fugitive Mr Borstad. Piper realised, too late of course, that he'd been lenient with the girl. He should have known she'd know more than she told. Certainly her protector, Jace, would have done. Was possibly even one of the Gang himself. Idiot Irishman!

[Silverspur_2020]

Putting her hands in her pockets she looked at Crow..."Well, we were looking for some information on a gang and knew you could help us... we could make it worth your while!" Sandy then goes on to give the gangs name and identifing colours... "So do you think you can help?" She stands there as he looks her over and contemplates what to say.

[Mysterio]

Holding the door open for the young woman, Deuce smiles, and just before it closes he turns to Pep
"Thanks chief," and with that follows Tyen.
Not much to go on yet, but something will turn up, it always does in the shadows

[Blitz]

"Ve should go back. Anything more will take time."

:: She leads the way back to her vehicle and then back to the well guarded safe house, a slight smile on her face as she smells the food. ::

[Rakshasa]

Piper opened one eye as he heard new arrivals. The alarm system was, he knew, on but would only trigger at unknowns, hence, this would be some of the Team returning. A broad smile cracked his face as he recognised the slight figure of the shadowy Russian who'd provided the place, and the Dandy.

"There's fresh rolls, butter and cheese, if you're hungry." The Irishman heaved his feet off his makeshift bed. "I hope you got something." He stood and stretched. "All I found was confirmation that Borstad took a fall that definitely wasn't an accident and that, probably, one of the Gang that did for him lives in the very building from which he fell." Piper moved toward the toilets. "Oh, and according to Catterick, it's also probable that Robert O E Borstad's ex Military."

The soycaf having finally got through made Piper's exit less than graceful as he left the room without waiting for a reply.

[Mysterio]

Deuce knew that he must've have been very tired in order to eat such a basic meal, but at this point, hunger beat out fatigue and the well dressed elf began to chow down. After finishing his food, and taking a sip from this very disgusting soycaf, he let out a yawn.
"Hmmm, oh excuse me," he said, wiping some crud from his eye, "Ex military? Hmmm that case could contain anything, and I highly doubt that it's kickin' around at that ganger building. Whether or not they knew its contents, it's all cash to them." Taking another sip of the soycaf, Deuce surveyed the hideaway I need a better place to sleep, change of clothes...

[Blitz]

:: Tyen smiles back slightly but her eyes brighten at the food. Basic it may be, but her body craved the carbs and to her, this was comfort food. She took her fill, easily eating three times the normal helping while she listened to his speculation. ::

"Da..that would confirm my suspiscions. My decker located only 2 possible Borstad's and one is live at home coffee boy so I discounted him. The other, Robert Oliver Edward Borstad, is probably our man. His personal records are completely wiped from system, or under too much IC for casual decking to chip through."

:: She finishes her 4th roll and wipes her greasy fingers on a napkin before she she starts pulling off her gear and her shoes. ::

"What he did find out was Borstad was formerly of Appledore in Devon, and now, or rather did, work for a man named Justin Carmichael as an assistant of sorts. Pep described Carmichael as "some pixie Duke or Knight or something". Also, he said Borstad was employed on the basis of his previous status as a military-trained guard at the Commons. That would fit with your ex miliatary theory. I have some of my...sources working on additional leads on both Borstad and Carmichael, but we may want to widen the search nets."

:: Walking towards the bathroom, she yawns and stretches. ::

"I need shower. Then sleep. I be ready in 3 hours."