IC: Working Days, Trapped between the Candle and the Star Options

[BishopMcQ]

::October 18, 2070::
::Seattle::

"Knight Errant forces responded last night to a daring raid of a local clinic by gang members--"

"OFF."

The trid mutes itself and then shuts down following the verbal and mental commands of the broad toothed ork. "Denver Rulez" pronounced in vibrant yellow against his blue t-shirt.

"Them kids did well last night."

"Yes, they did. Though perhaps they drew a bit too much attention to themselves. We will need to watch what the investigation uncovers. With one dead and the others making an obviously magical escape, I believe the farce of gangers attacking a Georgetown clinic will only be able to survive a few more hours."

The second man is obviously Asian, with the muscle tone and sculpture that comes from obsessive work in the gym or a skilled surgeon's scalpel.

"Janine, please call any regulars that are available for a discrete assignment, starting tomorrow. Bolster their number with a few of the Irregulars, preferably from folder Nu-Seven-Four."

Disconnecting the call from his internal commlink, he realizes that Gurth had been talking. He nods in agreement silently, a terse expression on his lips.

This could be problematic.

[HeySparky]

::October 18, 2070::
::Seattle::

Dim gray light illuminates the shade pulled over Esther's 'window.' The window was a rectangular wall-unit that provides UV radiation to interior rooms like hers. Shade up, it's an eye sore. Shade down, she can imagine that just beyond is the dreary, gray blanket of her Seattle home. With the quiet shush of drizzle playing in a loop across her audio link, the illusion is complete.

There had been a stretch of crisp, clear days in the city. Wholly unseasonable. Most folk were enjoying a rare break in the gloom, but for the past couple months Esther had had relished every bleak and rainy day that she got to spend off the streets. Not that she wished ill on folks stuck out there, just... it was nice. To be inside. Warm. Dry. In a real bed. It was going to be hard to give up.

So what the fuck is this tridcross crap, why no job listings? Don't want to get soft here at this apartment - not staying. Bull-fragging-shit.

English has suffixes and prefixes. But very few infixes. Frag, fuck, freaking - all variations on the same sentiment - had become one of the few infixes in the English language. Or'zet, on the other hand, had many. Esther wasn't fluent in Or'zet, but her grasp was decent. Several years around Brawlers... hard not to pick it up. Dangerous, even.

Bull-fragging-shit. Just being lazy. Already going soft.

Esther lay in bed. It was on the small side. Not designed for a troll's comfort, but she was on the small side as trolls went and didn't threaten the integrity of the furniture, nor dwarf the bedding terribly. She'd been up already. Showered. Fixed breakfast for the house. A simulated omelete. Nutra-soy imitated softer proteins rather well and she had been pleased with the results. She'd returned to the privacy of her room after breakfast and lay in bed working the day's AR puzzles out of her Mentation Mamba subscription. Not using her last paid-up week to find another gig.

No, lazy. See... too lazy to deserve this. Can the self-loathing crap, it's not worth the synapses wasted to think it AND stick to a side. Right.

So, this is it. Today's the day.

She stretches in the bed - shoulder joints popping, knuckles grazing the wall - and dismisses the puzzle she'd been working at. It dissolves into annoying giggles as it derezzes. There was still a bit of a stitch in her side where the bullet passed through. And even that stitch might just be the stubborness of her brain not letting her forget the injury. Certainly her body was fit again. She relaxes taut muscles and swings upright.

"So, this is it," she murmurs. "Today's the day." It's an affirmation of sorts. And a reality check. Lame, she knows. But one of those routines that long ago transcended habit and wandered into the realm of superstition. Atheletes could be like that. Though, as superstitions went, Esther was a light-weight.

She pulls on threadbare-going-on-grubby clothes and wishes that she had Taylor's fashion sense. And his wardrobe budget. They'd been in touch on and off since The Job, and were threatening to get a drink sometime this week, but they'd been threatening that for a while. Busy and all.

She takes a long dark coat from a hook over the mirror and stops, looking at her reflection. Ice blue eyes. Her real eyes had been a muddier, dark blue. She'd never learned where they'd come from. Her parents' and brother's eyes were all dark brown. Before the installation, the team's image consultants had suggested that the ice blue would be a good contrast to her skin. They had been right. She still liked the arresting affect they had. So vain... gawping at the mirror. No... just the eyes, look until they don't seem like they're mine.

Outside her room she hears the locks on the front door release and the now-familiar creak as the door opens and shuts. Her eyes cut to the door as she imagines the room on the other side, gut clenching. Just Juan. He was out.

She relaxes. Tosses the jacket onto the bed. Well, don't want to be anti-social. Time to make an appearance. She reaches for the door-knob and hears the door to Juan's room open and shut.

[Vegas]

::October 18, 2070::
::Seattle::

She had afforded herself the luxury of sleeping in this morning. It wasn't the fuzzy grey light filtering through her bedroom windows that caused her to rise, but the delicious smell of cooking bacon and eggs and thick, sweet southern chicory coffee. If there was any benefit that came from the run down in New Orleans it was simply that it afforded Jon the opportunity to taste some southern-style cooking and with that he brought back the ability to brew a mean pot of coffee. It was something that would endear him to A'ja even further.

She untangled herself from the soft and silky natural cotton sheets and peek her head down the hallway from the bedroom, from the looks of things and the way Jon was hovered over in the kitchen, she'd have just enough time to sneak in a quick shower before breakfast.

Some blasts of hot water and a fluffy white robe later, A'ja padded quietly into the kitchen, slipping her arms around her boyfriend from behind and giving him a tight squeeze and a soft kiss on the back of his neck before letting go and heading straight for the coffee. A warm cup between her hands and a few sips later and she had actually regained the ability to speak, let alone think clearly. Her blue eyes glittered with anticipation as she watched food being plated with the speed of wired reflexes. As he carried the food to the table a slow and contented smile played on her full lips. She was looking forward to some downtime now that both she and her boyfriend were in Seattle at the same time and didn't have jobs to do.

[krayola red]

::October 18, 2070::
::Seattle::

A lone figure stands silently on the sidewalk, propped up in a casual pose against a roadside lamp post. Dawn is near, but its herald is nowhere to be seen in the overcast gray sky above. At this hour of early morning, the streets are deathly quiet, the shops locked and barred and the majority of the city's population still in bed. Occasionally, a NewsNet rotodrone floats down the street, scouring the city in hopes of finding events worthy of the attention of those who actually get up early enough to catch the morning news. Every few minutes, the caw of a raven can be heard somewhere in the distance. After awhile, a single gunshot rings out, and the caws cease to sound. Juan had always found a kindred soul in ravens, but apparently someone doesn't share his sentiments. Eventually, a cab rounds the corner and pulls up on the curb in front of him. Stepping inside, Juan beams his address to the vehicle's computer with a few mental commands and reclines back in his seat as the doors seal shut. As the cab begins to move forward, he brings up an image of a man on his commlink, spends a few moments to study his countenance one last time, then activates the self-destruct command for the portfolio containing all the information he'd gathered for this job. In less than a second, every shred of incriminating evidence stored on his commlink is deleted, erased so perfectly that not a trace of it can be unearthed by the best electronic forensics investigators.

#The beast of eternal darkness has fed in blood. Payment for services rendered will be delivered as promised, yes?#

Outside, the scenery starts to blur. A few moments later, the Seattle skies open up without warning, and a dreary, doleful rain starts to fall, pittering and pattering softly on the grimy, litter-strewn surfaces below. A few more moments later, he was home. Stepping out of the cab, Juan heads up the dingy stairs of his apartment building, eventually arriving at the humble abode that he'd called home for the past few months. Unlocking the front door with an old fashion metal-and-teeth key, he walks inside. Out of the corner of his eyes, he spots a breakfast omelete sitting on a tarnished silver dish on the kitchen table, and smiles faintly. He still remembers the days when he would test each meal Esther prepared for poisons before he would put his fork in it. He still has his doubts about engaging in a shared living arrangement, but at least he knows now that she's not trying to murder him. After polishing off the breakfast, he heads to his room, strips off all his work gear, lies down in bed, and closes his eyes. Sleep doesn't come easy anymore, not since Anita died, but he'll take it whenever he can get it.

[Penta]

::October 18, 2070::
::Seattle::

It's a long, slow, Saturday morning and the rain is falling outside. One of the things John had come to like was not the rain, but the fact that, since the winds blew inward from the Pacific in Seattle, the rains did not (often) carry acid rain with them.

It was pure rain. Rain composed, moe or less, of mostly H2O, not H2O-plus-random-toxic-chemicals. Much better on everything and everybody.

That was his brief, brief thought as he rolled out of bed on this slow, sleepy Saturday morning.

After showering and getting ready for whatever the day was going to hold - he had nothing planned, but things could happen at any time, he dropped to his knees before a crucifix on the wall, pulling out a rosary and crossing himself.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen," he whispered to himself.

"I believe in God the Father, creator of Heaven and Earth..." he began to pray, the ancient, unchanging rhythm of the rosary, starting with the Apostles' Creed. A practice Billy McBain (Father Bill, now, but part of him would always remember the little kid he'd first met in preschool) had reawakened in him when he'd come to Seattle, months ago. Nothing much, just starting the day, when he could, by praying the rosary before the crucifix, the image of Christ on the cross. A calm, quiet time before the day went to its usual lightspeed pace.

[Mister Juan]

::October 18, 2070::
::Pier 64, Seattle Aquarium, Seattle::

Ludmila yawned heavily. It wasn't that she was bored, but weekends had a tendency to make her feel tired. During the week, her work at Watanabe kept her so busy, always on her toes, that she never had time to feel tired. But nevertheless, she was glad it was Saturday... even if the weather was as crappy as always. It gave her the opportunity to spend entire days with Lana. It was unfortunate, but her work at Watanabe didn't giver her much to spend and raise her daughter; Zina did most of the work. So, every time she had days off, she would spoil the little girl as much as she could.

Today, the activity of choice had been a trip to the Seattle Aquarium. Lana had been going crazy over fishes ever since she had watched some animated show on the trid. She kept drawing whales now.

Of course, the aquarium didn't have whales, but it would probably beat anything else Ludi could come up with.

Quietly sitting on a bench, next to the gift shop, the russian woman kept one eye on her daughter, who was buzzing around the touch pools of the "Life on the Edge" exhibition, and the other one on the small morning crowd of visitors and tourists.

Things had changed so much since Lana had been born. She had left not only her career at the FSB behind, but also her motherland. In a strange way, her work at Watanabe was less risky than the operation she ran back with the Ministry of Domestic Security. The pay was also better. Only 6 months after starting with the small security firm, she had been able to get a nice house in a quiet and safe part of Renton. It even had a small backyard where Lana could play when the sun was shining. All in all, life was good.

[BishopMcQ]

Esther
You start thinking about pulling the game back up, torn between your self-loathing desire to give in to the laziness and a need to do something with your life. Breaking the internal conflict, your link warns you of an incoming call, voice only, from Taylor.

"Hey Fade, how's tall, dark and spooky treating you? Listen, a call just came in, well you know, I happened to pick it up off the link...yeah, there's a call put out by a local security firm--Watanabe Security Consultants. They are gathering up a team of discrete irregulars. Sounded like something up your alley...and seeing as how this week is booked solid for me, so I won't be able to get that drink that we've been talking about, I thought I'd pass something along to help fill the time until next week, when we are able to get that drink. Sound good?"

//Incoming Data Transmission

"Here's the file for you."

A'ja
Sipping your coffee, the dark, rich flavors play across your tongue as hints of spice and earth fill your nostrils. Jon slides his plate forward slightly, silently telling you that he is done with breakfast. He rises and begins to clear the dishes away, leaving you with your coffee for a few minutes.

From the next room, the insistent chirping of your commlink begins calling out. You pull it up along your image link to check the ID. The Suit. You've worked with the local fixer before. Clean work, generally corporate.

Juan
Sleep brings fractured moments of rest and torment as your body tries to regain the energy it needs and your mind brings forth dreams and nightmares. You are jarred from your sleep by your commlink ringing. One day, you would remember to turn it off before you slept.

"Fuck, Jack, I thought you would be fucking dead to the god-damned fucking world by this forsaken hour. Shit hit the fan like a fucking tornado across a manure field last night. Now some pretentious two-shit cock-sucker is fucking around on the periphery and laying fucking claim to all my no-fucking talent shit-stains and keel-hauling my ass into next week on the fucking commission. That fucking means that you need to fucking go to another god-damned forsaken meet and do work with fuck knows who at all fucking hours. You fucking open?"

Even without your contacts in for the image-link, you immediately recognize Manny's urbane grasp of the vernacular.

John
You put the rosary away and begin to sort the growing laundry pile into lights and darks so that you would be able to get ahead on your weekly routines. Tossing one last running sock into the "to be bleached" stack, you hear your commlink ring.

"John, it's Tommy. Listen, do you remember that security company you worked for a few weeks ago? It turns out they liked you and want a return engagement. Still just per diem, no contracts, but what do you think? Got any plans for tonight?"

Ludmila
With a soft chirp, your image link flares to life. Janine, the de facto manager of the Seattle office for Watanabe and Mr. Watanabe's personal assistant when he was in Seattle, is calling.

"Ludi, I hope that I'm not interrupting anything, but Mr. Watanabe has a project that he would like you to oversee personally. Will you be able to meet with a few people this evening?"

[Penta]

John chuckles softly. "Nope, no plans. Your offer sounds like a good way to spend a Saturday night. Around here, anyway." Penta mentally calls up his calendar, checking through a window in his image link. Nope, nothing planned, nothing left undone.

[krayola red]

Juan remains silent until Manny finishes his spiel, staring blankly at the sunlight oozing through the shades as he listens to the troll rant. As is custom, he mentally erases all the "fucks" from the his fixer's sentences to make them comprehensible, takes a moment to gather his thoughts when Manny's done, then nods.

"Money goes where the wind blows. Which place, and what time?"

[Vegas]

A'ja mentally accepted the call, going voice only as she wasn't dressed to impress that very moment. Besides, she didn't need The Suit getting any ideas seeing her in a bathrobe and not much more. She flashed an apologetic smile to Jon and pointed to her temple indicating she had an incoming call she had to take.

"You've got my attention, what's the intel."

[HeySparky]

Esther cuts her Agent loose on the file. In her periphery images and windows pop open and close with astonishing speed as the Agent works the file over, laying open the contents, running down the obvious stuff, estimated time to interview destination, bus routes, archival footage of Watanabe Consultants - gotta dress to impress, Taylor would be proud - and then starts the slow Crawl to collect data on Watanabe.

"God. Does it sound good...?" Esther smiles and continues, "You know this Watanabe outfit? They anything like what we ran into at the, uh, at Eight-Nano?"

She'd banged up, maybe even killed, a bunch of Security Consultants a few months back. Not Watanabe. Not that she knew, anyway. She wondered if the world of Security Consultancy was as small and incestuous as the Show. Probably. She might be sunk before even starting. Or... maybe they had seen her on film and were impressed. No... Taylor spidered this. They won't be expecting me. Not in particular. That's a different sitch all together.

Esther and Taylor talk for a while, it's comfortable, and she realizes that she's missed regular company. Kuno had hooked her up with this inscrutable and strangely hygenic Latino roommate, but they hadn't really gotten to be close. Not like Taylor and the others. Maybe if she and Juan stole - ahem, extracted - an AI-human hybrid while under fire and then - the same evening - broke into a secure facility, caused explosions, extracted some data, got shot at and escaped under magical disguise. Coming through that kind of thing had a way of blasting through social niceties and cutting right to the core of relationships - trust.

"Sure you can't get in on this? No. No I understand. And thanks. I'll call you next week for that drink. Later."

Her fingertips tingle and a chill races up and down the still-organic bits of her spine.

Whaddya know? Today IS the day.

[Mister Juan]

When the incoming call started to buzz inside her head, Ludmila sighed heavily. For a moment, she thought about simply not answering… but that was simply not an option. She looked down next to her, to where Lana was standing, her bright eyes in awe to the sharks swimming over them in the Underwater Dome exhibit.

With a mental click, Janine’s face popped into a small window in Ludi’s field of view.

“I will clear my schedule…” she replied, her voice sounding emotionless over the transduced link.

She looked up at one of the passing predators.

“I’ll be in at the office as soon as a I can.”

[BishopMcQ]

John
"Glad to hear you're open. The meeting is going to happen this afternoon, about five hours from now. It an old world bar on the corner of East Denny Way and 16th Ave East. Ask for the Watanabe Group."

A glance to your image link says the meet will be around four o'clock.

Juan
Filtered expletives roll over you as an address come into your link. 4 PM, Paradise O

The accompanying data packet has information about the bar, wait staff and neighborhood. Notable characters: Owner, Charles MacBain, known awakened, Scottish Expatriate. Bouncer, Golas MacBain, Fomori male, familial relation confirmed. Bartender, Maggie Mae O'Shea (believed alias), changeling, known expression of medusa like qualities. Neighborhood has a higher than normal demographic of awakened individuals.

A'ja
"I've got a known quantity looking to pick up a little talent. Mostly legit, they need someone with a few missing morals to bring a second opinion to the table. Meeting at the O, today around 4. Back room, come light but prepared to work. You up for it?"

Fade
"Nope, this is a different outfit. I checked, there's no relation to the boys upstairs."

Poring over the file, you pick up the more salient bits. Meeting was to be at a bar/restaurant in the artsy (read: awakened) part of town, Cap Hill. Main point of contact is a regular for Watanabe, name unknown. Work to commence at 1600 hours.

Ludmila
Relief spills over in Janine's voice.

"Excellent. We have the meeting scheduled for four PM, due to the irregulars, I took the liberty of renting a private conference room in Capital Hill at the Paradise O. If you have time, come by the office and I can give you the ops file. Otherwise I will be able to transmit it to your link."

[Vegas]

A'ja couldn't help but smirk slightly, wondering if it was her missing morals that would be needed or those of other talent. She glanced down slightly, inspecting the clock ticking away the seconds in the corner of her field of vision.

"Around four at the O. I can be there. Should I bring friends, or is this an invite only type of event?"

Mentally she was already planning what to wear and what to bring to the meeting.

[Mister Juan]

Massaging the back of her neck with the tips of her fingers, emerging from a pair of fingerless gloves, the Russian woman suddenly felt twice as tired as she was. She had planned everything for a quiet weekend of relaxing with Lana. The soldier in her said it was her duty to do as told. The spy hunter in her wanted to do it just for the fun. The mother in her wanted to stay at home and watch her daughter draw.

But even with a steady job like the one she had been lucky enough to pull, cred was always short. Not the best at managing her expenses, Ludmila knew that for Lana to get in the best schools, she’d have to align either corporate credentials, or a fat credstick.

Pulling this irregular assignment would either mean a raise or a bonus.
Maybe both if she did well.

A shark slowly swam by.

Double checking the digital readout in the corner of her eye, she tried to estimate how much time she’d need to get home, suit up and head to the office.

“I’ll be in before noon” she transmitted over the link, her voice void of her real meat heavy accent.

She reached down, taking Lana’s hand and slowly walked toward the next exhibit.

“Are we assigning any other personnel to the op, or am I flying solo?”

[BishopMcQ]

A'ja
"This particular event is by invite only."

With a few pleasantries, The Suit ends the call confident in your ability.

Ludmila
With the same efficiency that you have always known from Janine she seamlessly cross-references multiple data-streams.

"It appears that you are the only regular agent assigned to this operation. There will be several irregulars to provide support, but Mr Watanabe would like to keep this low profile."

[Mister Juan]

"Copy that. I'll be in within the next hour."

She looked down at her daughter, giving her a wide smile.

"Come on baby, we need to go home"

[Penta]

"Understood."

Mental commands call up what he can find out on the Trix about this bar, particularly dress code and other vital information.

[HeySparky]

Esther nods, though the gesture is lost on her voice-only connection with Taylor. Capitol Hill. Oh great. She shivers at the thought of so many awakened in one place.

"Cap Hill, eh? I guess I'll have to dig that cloak and magic wand out of storage. How's Random, anyway?"

They trade pleasantries and cut the connection. 1600. 4 o'clock. Five small hours and change. Esther parks herself at the small table that is both workspace and dining room for the apartment. She unseats the commlink from the datajack in her temple, shuddering as the signal switches from DNI with her brain to the electrochemical interface of the skinlink. She sits back, holding the small device cupped in one hand. It projects holos of the windows that were previously displayed in AR. She shoves them around her free hand. Something was more comfortable about manipulating the windows in realspace. She guessed she was just one of those throwbacks who liked to kick it old school. Though she wasn't one of those nuts who insisted on reading books printed on cellulose. That was just silly.

Work to commence at 1600. Wait. So... no interview? I'm coming cold to a Security job, work to commence immediately, and they might not be expecting me. She spends about an hour, working with her Agent on digging up bits of information on Watanabe, the location of the - what the fuck is it if not an interview? the 'meet'? Shit... I don't want any of that crap. She looks at the name of the joint on the file, Paradise O. Another bar. In an area catering to the awakened.

If today was the day, maybe she could go back to bed, wait for the next today. She shook her head and dove back into the sea of windows surrounding her. It was nice to get a chance to do some research. Just like in the old days. Though... in the absence of an adversary, the search was focused on her soon-to-be-employer Watanabe. These days, that was just as useful.

An hour passes.

Browsing a selection of boutiques in the area, Esther bites the bullet and decides to plan a shopping trip in Capitol Hill. She smiles to herself at the thought of being fluttered around by put-together boutique butterflies. Though.. the amount of money she had to spend was probably not enough to buy their good humor. She'd have to get by on charm.

Ho boy. Well, better get moving.

//Message to: Taylor
//Re: Work attire
//I'm gonna do some shopping in Cap Hill. Tips?

[BishopMcQ]

Ludmila
Lana lingers for just a second as she waves good bye to the predators all around her in the tanks and then comes to take your hand. You aren't sure why you were gifted with such a patient, perfect child, but she has never fussed or cried about you needing to go to work.

An hour later, you are walking into work with a duffel slung over one shoulder. Your own personalized gear which you preferred to the general one-size fits none jumpsuits made available to new hires who had no sense. Thus far, only one person had ever pulled one on that you had seen.

Your desk top is clear of clutter and debris in the physical world, as you slide on the touch-links which would enable you to interact with the virtual projection. A small processor rests over the back of your hand as cables extend to caps at the tip of each finger. Watanabe Security had created a paperless office about five years ago.

As the virtual desktop spring up, the desk itself becomes covered in a myriad of AROs made tangible by the gloves. In the center of your desk is a projected leather bound portfolio. High tech, but anachronistic.

It begins with a letter from Nicholas Watanabe apologizing for this inconvenience and thanking you for your assistance with this matter. The same letter you received the last time you were called in on a weekend, and the time before that. Dismissing it, you delve into the background material.

A primer on corporate politics between Takara Inc and Ikeda Enterprises. Information about the TAO (Tactically Augmented Organism) project, comes next. Operational accounting of a failure to acquire necessary information from a suspected harborer of information, code name Finn.

Esther
//Incoming Personal Message
//RE: Work Attire
//On a budget, check Crossroads Trading.

[krayola red]

"I shall be where the work demands. Take care of yourself, old timer, for I'll be lost without you."

Your connection has been terminated.

After spending a few minutes to acquaint himself with the information contained within the data packet, Juan switches off his commlink and reclines back into the bed, staring at the spinning blades of the lazy ceiling fan above. Another job down the pipeline, so quickly before the previous. Seattle truly is a haven for the criminal-minded. Work here had been lucrative, but perhaps it's time to make this caper the last. Move on to new lands, where his is but another face in the endless sea of faces, unmemorable, fleeting. A reputation is a dangerous thing.

Juan sits up, stretches to clear the sleep from his joints and muscles, and strides over to his work desk. Assembled in a neat row on the wall shelf is a small collection of old fashioned, honest to goodness books, the genuine articles, 100% dead tree. Back in the days when he was still in the society, a vast majority of the tomes that he'd studied from were works written long before the advent of this century, and had never been reproduced digitally. After all, many of them contained the kind of secrets that are meant to be kept away from the uninitiated, and electronic books are much more vulnerable to theft than their physical counterparts. Times have changed, but old habits die hard. Even now, he still doesn't feel comfortable delegating a session of hard reading to his AR display, preferring instead to hold a real book in his hands, with pages he can flip through. And he's been doing a lot of reading these days. Maestro Haquel once said that knowledge is the universal solvent. To understand a man, you must see the world through his eyes, and to look through his eyes, you must know what he knows.

Juan runs his thumb through the spines of the books on the shelf until he arrives at the one he wants. Plucking it out, he sits down and lays it out on the desk. The Dictionnaire Philosophique, by Francois-Marie Arouet, better known by his pen name of Voltaire. Philosophy's been a favored subject for Juan these past few months. He'd started the week reading Seneca, but he found himself losing his stomach for the man's work shortly after he began. No one ought to write about death until they'd taken the life of another man with their own hands - anything less was a farce at best. So no more Seneca. Flipping through the Dictionnaire until he arrives at his dog-eared page, Juan leans over and picks up from where he'd last left off. He still had a few hours to kill before the meet, and he might as well spend them productively.

[Mister Juan]

Shuffling the virtual sheets of paper around her desk a few times, Ludmila read the reports over and over, committing them to memory. It would have been, of course, much faster and easier to simply do a direct download of all the data to her own hardwired electronic memory… but out of habit, Ludmila simply didn’t do it. She had learned the hard way, during covert operations for the FSB, that carrying around large amount of operational data in your head, while out on the field, was a sure way to get you killed.

In this day and age, information was power… so keeping what you knew to yourself made you less vulnerable.

Stretching and yawning, the Russian woman started to fish around her numerous pockets for her pack of cigarette. Finally finding it, she started hitting it against her hand, trying to dislodge one as she read over the files one last time.

Bringing the cigarette to her lips, and lit it, giving the “no smoking” sign not far from her desk a finger. On the weekends, the office was mostly empty anyways. That fact was confirmed by the short walk she took to the locker area. The large training room, with it’s walls all made of transparent glass, showed only deserted mats, lonely punching bags and unused weights. Beside some of the pencil pushers, odds were she was pretty much alone.

As she approached her locker, she heard it click open as a result a simple mental input. She flung the door open and started undressed. In an almost ritualistic manner, Ludmila started to pack her gear: fitting her modular shoulder harness on, tightening the belts and hoops, securing straps and pins. In the small of her back, she holstered her service pistol; an Ares Predator IV loading gel rounds. Her shoulder holster kept a Steyr TMP snugged close to her ribs, under her left arm, comfortably counterbalanced with one extra clip for the TMP and the Predator under her right arm. Bending down, she lifted her khaki cargo pants, retrieving a small Colt L36 from an ankle holster. In one swift motion, she pulled the slide backwards, making a brass check. Seconds later, the small backup pistol was back half way into her combat boot.

Grabbing her Watanabe security jacket off it’s hanger, she pulled the two Velcro strips patches that hung around each arm: both were bright orange, with the word SECURITY written in bold black lettering.

Slipping the armored jacket on, Ludi also pulled off the L.SOREN tag off the front pocket, tossing it back inside the locker. Beside the ID tagged to her internal commlink, she now had no more physical links with Watanabe. Opening the inside flap of her jacket, she clipped two flashbang units in place before reaching back into the locker for a small metallic briefcase.

With a heavy thud from her combat boot, she kicked the door back, heading towards the exit as she heard the locker’s unit chime in it was now closed.

[Penta]

After finishing the call with a few pleasantries, John walks through his apartment, checking out his "work gear": Ares Predator IV, one clip of gel rounds for the weapon, extra clip of gel rounds, medkit.

He would, of course, dress for the occasion, depending on what the trixguides said about the place where the meet was occurring.

But for now, he was in comfortable clothes; he would change closer to when he had to leave.

Until then, a digital copy of Thomas Aquinas's Summa Theologiae, various of Benedict XVI's works, and similar thoughtful reading would help him kill time.

[HeySparky]

//Message to: Juan
//Re: Errands
//I'm going out for a while, need me to pick anything up?

Esther heads back to her room and packs a slim, slightly worn duffel with her working gear: Torn down Remington 990, a couple magazines of gel rounds, a couple boxes of ammo (gel rounds and more), urban camo, neatly folded and pressed, medkit, and gas mask - because you never know.

She disengages the jacklock and a small portal at her temple irises open. In goes the biomonitor, a slim digital sleeve that will constantly monitor her cyber and bioware, various natural physical benchmarks and alert her of abnormal conditions - or in emergency situations - send out an S.O.S. The sleeve fits snugly into the jack, a digital prophylactic against unauthorized access of the datajack - the most vulnerable of orifices.

Laser sight and periscope go in the pocket. Baton into narrow holster at her hip. She slips on a weapon harness and gives her Roomsweeper a good once-over before snugging it into its holster up under her left arm. The weight - even loaded with non-lethal rounds - focuses her. She zips up the duffel bag and arms the IC and anti-tamper circuits on her weapons, commlink and weapons case.

Calling up a map of Capitol Hill she locates the nearest U-Stor-It franchise and reserves a locker for two hours starting at 3pm. The subharmonics on an ad for a local gym draw her attention and the rest of her afternoon slots into place.

Crossroads.
Gym.
U-Stor-It.
Paradise O.

[Vegas]

She mused over the limited details about the “party” she was going to be attending that afternoon and ran down a potential checklist of items she’d have to bring to be “ready to work” as instructed. She was distracted by the half-dressed male body in her kitchen that was currently hand-washing dishes from breakfast and politely giving her the space she needed while on the phone. While that would have been a signed, sealed and delivered godsend for most women, for A’ja it just was the way things were. It’s what happened when you had two people running in the same shadowy circles living under one roof, you learned when to make yourself invisible.

She did like the view however. Besides there would be plenty of time to get ready before making the meet at The O at 4. Biting her lip, the longer she watched the more feral of a smile played on her lips. She slipped into the kitchen and dragged Jon back to bed where she wanted to do anything but go back to sleep.

With her carnal desires quelled, she rose from the bed and took her second shower of the day. Once she was clean she headed into the spare room to take inventory of her gear. A spare duffle bag is quickly filled with goodies only a runner could love. Her Ares predator along with spare clips loaded with flechette, stick n’ shock and regular ammo are stored within the folds of an armored jacket. A couple of flashpaks and light sticks coupled with her standard white noise generator are tucked into pockets of her leather jacket. After raiding Jon’s cache of medical supplies she scores a fully restocked medkit, various patches of the trauma, stim and tranquilizing kinds. Other incidentals such as her small hard case filled with her linguasofts are placed in a small pocket of the bag and her glasses are settled onto her face. The gear would find a comfortable spot in the trunk of her car till the details of the job were spelled out. The Slivergun is settled on her person and she’s be ready to talk her way into or out of almost anything.

She spends a good amount of time getting herself physically ready as well. Her hair is swept back in a smart, but sleek and professional looking ponytail. A pair of form-fitting black pants are slipped on, coupled with a pale ice blue t-shirt that hugs every curve. A pair of black boots and her well-worn leather jacket complete the look and it’s much more stylish than “too casual” for a meet.

She made one final promise to make up the weekend to Jon with one last kiss before she hefted the small duffle bag and headed down to the parking garage to make her way over to The O. She wanted to be sure she could beat traffic and still have enough time to get a good feel on the days clientele before heading inside.