IC: Dawn of the Artifacts., In Character Thread. Options

[SincereAgape]

Saturday, April 7th. 1330 Hours. Seattle, UCAS.

This story begins in Seattle. And of course the rain is falling. It is not a simple drizzle either, rather another continual downpour of acid, making travel on this dreary day a pain in the ass. Seems like every other job these days has to do with tempo, drugs, or the fallout from the recent "restructuring" of the criminal underworld. It's been a dangerous past few months, with every major and minor player in the sprawl fighting tooth-and-nail for their place. Even the news is obsessed with tempo, and it seems like right now, every trid channel is covering yet another tempo -fueled crime spree. Governor Brackhaven promises a end to all of this violence soon, what a crock. You know that's not true.

Wouldn't it be nice to get away from it all? The Emerald City is not looking so crystal right now, and the only green that can be seen is smog congregating in the sky above. In between the cracks, alley ways, drug dens, squats, penthouses, jail cells, bar backrooms, and corporate megaliths; four conversations are about to occur. Four conversations which will hopefully kick off this tale.

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Dexter Pope barges through his apartment door. While arguing with his landlord about the latest rent amount, Dexter heard his commlink signal from inside of his room. He wanted to answer it, but the fat slob insisted that this apartment in the Redmond Barrens had 'character' and thus would be increasing Dexter's rent...again. Dexter swore to himself just as he entered. He was already to late. He went over to the commlink and operated the voice recording menu. Finding the missed call.

<<"Sigh. Dexter, are you there? It's Sue. Pickup if you're there.">> there was a slight pause. <<"Guess not. Listen. Your child support is due in a week, and I need it early. Catherine's college tuition is not going to pay itself. Gosh. If you had been a good father to her....*Another sigh*. Just get it to me when you actually have the money, God knows when that will be. By the way, Emma is being difficult with me again. She's always like this after seeing you. What the heck are you doing with her? Forget I asked. Bye Dexter. Bye.>>

Where the heck are you going to get the money Dexter? Rent is due. Utilities are due. Child support is due. Those midnight excursions to Tickler's aren't helping. That Gauss rifle you've been dreaming of is looking very far away my friend.

Hey the commlink is beeping again. Maybe it’s work. Your hopes are soon dashed. It’s only Bennie. You answer. Bennie looks like shit. He’s out of breath, talking incoherently, and anxious.

<<”Dexter! Glad I was able to contact you. You have to hear this. Let me catch my breath first. *Huff Huff*. Okay. Better now. I just spoke to Mr. T and he has a special request from a Ms. Johnson. Seems she has a need for a team to accompany here on a trip overseas. Somplace tropical, she says. If you’re interested she wants to meet you tonight at the club 77 in Renton. She’s got a room reserved for 1700 hours. Here is the address, and a code to broadcast when you get there. Let me know if you’re interested, because I might take the damn offer myself.>>

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Heads turn. Sun glasses fall to the bridge of their noses as she walks by. She brings sunlight to all of the men while walking through the Seattle rain. Vera Renczi. A woman of many faces. A woman of many talents. And a drek hot Shadowrunner in all meanings of the word. Running the Seattle Shadows has been tedious and irritating recently. It seems all your targets have been sleezy drug dealers or over-sexed mobsters recently. Where is the challenge? Where is the entertainment? Where is the appreciation of your art? You have been feeling like Da Vinchi painting a scene of the Brooklyn Bridge, when you should be translating something like the Eiffel tower.

Your commlink beeps. The user tag identifies the caller as “Orion.” A former ex Mossad military officer. Street Samurai. And one of the few men who has never oogled over you. You provide him a pleasent smile, who knows if it’s genuine. He answers.

“Vera.” His handsome Mediterranean features ever so prominent. “It looks like I was able to contact you. As usual, it is about business, not pleasure. A affluent Ms. Johnson recently contacted me, and asked if I knew anyone with international connections. Naturally I thought of you. She’s looking to formulate a team, one that will be traveling. If you are interested..I can send you information on the meet.”

[Orion sends you the same information Bennie provides Dexter. 1700 Hours, at the Club 77 in Renton. It is a high class club, so dress appropriately. You are also provided a code for an RFID tag to let you in.]

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“Fucking Belloq. ‘Bout time you got to Seattle.” John Smith barked over your commlink. The man’s bald head, eye patch, and long scar running down his left cheek did not match with his 2,000 nuyen glowing white Vashon Suit.

Hoddler, you find yourself in a middle class Westin’ Hotel somewhere in Downtown. John Smith is not really high on your “If I have an extra Seattle Seadogs ticket I’d give him a call right away list” but you do know he is connected, that is the reason why you tolerate him sometimes.

“Remember how I told you that the meet wasn’t for another three days? Well, I was wrong. It’s tonight at the Club 77. 1700 Hours sharp. Seeing what time it is, I’d say you have four hours to get your little beady halfer legs over to Renton. Serves you right for not taking a morning flight. Here is the RFID code that you’ll need to get in. By the way, I heard it’s a Ms. Johnson. Should be right up your alley right? Hehehe.”


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Hawkeye.

The man holding the sign at the airport was taking you to Renton. Of course you didn’t know that. You find yourself in the back seat of a Euro Car Westwind. Thus far the car ride hasn’t been bad. You look outside the window and notice the various metahumans loitering the streets. Orks, dwarfs, elves, trolls, and more orks. In Japan you never saw this many. They were all dressed in various fashions and attires. Beverly Hills meets Compton. The chauffer hasn’t been sleezy either. Once in awhile he asks you if you are comfortable in the back seat, or if you would the music changed. You even find the silence in between the two of you comfortable. Perhaps you knew this gentlemen in the past? Perhaps he was your friend? But probably not. Most likely is being hired to act as your initial liason in this metroplex and was simply being professional about everything.

On your left you pass a large factory and airfield, noticing the signs “Federated Boeing Renton Facility” in glowing AR. The advertisement has various roto drones of all shapes and sizes buzzing around like bees. You arrive at the underground parking garage. Mr. “Turned Out Not to Be So Sleezy” hands you a magcard and then points to a motorcycle in the garage. You step out of the car with all of your gear. Right before you slam the door shut, he speaks.

“Hey kid. One more thing. Here catch.”

He tosses, you a small chip which could be played in your commlink. It looks like a visual recording of some kind. The Eurocar Westwind, slowly drives away, and you wonder if you’ll ever see the driver again. When you play the chip, a visual recording pops up in a private display for you. What you see is you.

There she is Hawkeye. Dressed in casual clothing, sitting on a stool in a garage. Beside her is a table, littered with firearms of all assortments. To no surprise you see yourself cleaning and taking apart THE RIFLE before speaking.

“Good. Looks like you made it this far, so some people can still be trusted. Remember that.” You smile up at yourself a bit. “You're in Seattle, I've got one last thing for you, and then you're on your own.”

A set of alphanumerical numbers appear in the corner display of your commlink.

“Those are a set of RFID codes that will get you into Club 77 in Renton. Be there at 1700 Hours. You need nuyen and a place to lay low for awhile. This particular Ms. Johnson contacted me about a week ago, and explained that she needed to gather a team together for a run in Lagos. I told her you would hear her out. Good luck.”

The call ends. But hopefully a story begins.