IC - The Rabbit, ...Everything has teeth... Options

[Tiralee]

In the beginning...

Cue the usual dingy apartment that seems to be the ultimate goal of a shadowrunner first home owner: food packets, take-out, delivery, eat-in, empty bottles, semi-empty bottles and the occasional weapon for an accent piece.
The Telecom's constant bleeping cuts through the previous week's hangover and you stagger to the unit.
(You swear, if it's someone cold-calling you, you will make it your life's work to hunt them down and make them pay.)

But no, it's the semi-welcome face of your ever-friendly local Fixer ™. There is a smile at the display of human debris behind you - obviously time has swung around for another run.

"I've got a possible something for you, looks legit. Meet the Johnson at the Vines, 9:30, tomorrow, got it?"

You mumble something that could be considered an affirmative, end the call, grab a hand-weapon and go to turf out the devil-rat family that thinks your bathroom is their personal domain.

After a good hour or two, mostly spent patching yourself up, you dig through the online directory until you find the Vines - a small...winebar? This isn't sounding like your typical brew-barn. Time to dust yourself off, get some semblence of posture and try and look hireable.


About 9pm, next day...

Well, it looks like you were wrong - you thought only soy-beer taverns could look this crappy.
Two trolls, looking like they get paid more for width, are checking out the incoming clientel - not enough money to spring for a MAD, it looks like. But enough for two walking walls to loom over you.
Easing you way in with a little gratituity and some nice words ("Hey, Trog-boy, how 'bout you go buy yourself some joy-juice and get stupid?" is not recommended.) you're at the bar asking for the Johnson party.

The Winebar itself isn't THAT bad. No, wait. It is.
To even your non-expert eyes it looks like the house wine is what the patrons send back or leave on the tables, spit included. The bartender jerks a scarred thumb in the direction of the door labelled "Private Party Room". The regulars ignore you, hinting that this isn't happy hour, or that whatever they spike the wine with really kicks in after a couple of year's exposure.

Tipping the barkeep, you straighten up, cast one last glance around the bar and head towards the indicated room.

Showtime chummers.


In the conferance area, there is a strange assortment of what passes for human these days. There is also a thin, neatly dressed Johnson with a couple of examples of the "rent-a-wall series" of bodyguard who look tough, mean and like they'll need a break for the little boy's room in a while.


The long streak of misery looks at the collection of strange cast-offs that were collected by his cattle-call, then begins.

"The task is reasonably simple - I require the extraction of this person from the gang she's with."

He tosses a couple of glossys down on the table. All show a youngish girl-woman in ganger colours. The colours are unfamiliar, maybe after you check it out later...

"It is necessary that she be as unharmed as possible - I'm not paying for damaged goods and I doubt that they're expecting anything of this sort. The pay is 5000, each."

He shoots the collected dregs a hot little glare. "I don't care if you have to kill every living thing in a 5-block radius, as long as the girl is unharmed, is that clear?"

Ok, so the girl is not to be shot. That much is made obvious.

"Are you in?"

You pause, considering...