Hunting in the Smoke IC, British Shadows are dark... mostly... Options

[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…”