Tribes [2075: Game World], Persistent World [SR5] IC Sub-Thread Options

[Aria]

[Thursday July 18th, 2075; Fre∑dom’s Host, Puyallup]

Prospero’s persona slipped through the digital maelstrom of the Fre∑dom firewalls and out into the blissful tranquillity of the tropical night. The waves lapped against his robes, the current sucking at them as his presence was authorised. The sand on the beach sculpted itself into impossible arcane forms as the recent logs were transferred to his deck. Despite the recent difficulties in upgrading the tribe to the new matrix protocols the corps had foisted on them he was quietly pleased with the results and their few remaining technomancers told him that the well and the secret it protected had not been undermined by the changes.

Nerieds and merfolk gambolled in the waves, playing with a couple of the younger members of the tribe whose outlandish icons stood out against the sculpting motif of the host. Prospero welcomed their innovation, they were the life of the tribe and their ideas and insights were what kept them alive whilst older minds like his struggled to adapt to the rapid evolutions around them. Hell, he felt positively ancient these days and he was glad that his meat form was once more relegated to an inconvenience, kept alive by the machines in his hiding place in the bowls of their old home.

On the whole the integration with their neighbours, the Mechanicals, had been fairly seamless with only a few arguments about living accommodation. The invitation to adopt space within the perimeter of the other tribe had made sense and after the desperate attempts to defend the old mall it was refreshing for his people to feel safe once more. Some artful demolition had collapsed the roof of the mall so that it wouldn’t be an attractive proposition for the hordes of squatters that might come to claim their old turf.

Ever since Spindle had slipped into his whispering senility, the fate of most magic users to Prospero’s mind, Oyl had been managing their neighbouring tribe with surprising skill given her youth...not that anyone was young here anymore. Her influence had steadied their neighbours through the difficult times and her healing had been invaluable as the plague had swept through their midst.

Prospero brushed those memories aside, the views had seemed surreal from his detached location as his tribe had succumbed to the horrible hacking coughs that had finished so many off…

[shonen_mask]

Thursday July 18th; Downtown District


Con pulls his collar up to keep the rain off his face and neck but has made no other observeable movement in 10 minutes or so....

Soon after the message he was waiting on comes <<Ready. are You?>>. Con counts off a few seconds then switches he comlink to wireless-off. Then unslaves his Microdeck Summit and sets S4 D3 F3 A1, Wireless....

Bad_Fuse is somewhere doing the same he figures. The both of them make a virtual path to little known local grid owned by Ares Macrotechnology. Fuse is swears it was set up just this week. Con is the lead on this one, settled with a flip of a coin.

"There it is." he thinks to himself "Ares Backend Transport, Physical. And still got the plastic wrapper on it..." He laughs...

The two deckers float their commands and press the host in consort. With that accomplished they enter in silent mode.

"Just as he thought, brand new and no patrol IC yet. At least none we can see."
"No one here but an office manager and the one device..." A rating 6 comlink. The deckers run their hack and mark the device. Still not a sign of any IC activity. Too Easy...

Not waisting any time, Con spots an encrypted file sitting left out in a main directory. Him and Fuse give it a try. But fuse is Distracted with some other Action in the device. He won't be any help here. Luckly the Encryption is weak and it disappears easily....

It's a message format. Con knows by the transmission data sent with it. Grid I.D... This is the Nairobi Grid logic, Host Serial, User I.D.... Wait, The User is a program.....

<<Backend Support Terminated. User no longer is here>>.
But the rest of the file shows positive link status before and after the message, positive activity from the support matrix...

<<Node ownership transfered. User I.D.-_____________ _____ _________>>
<<End conection>>

"The bastards lost an AI!......"

In that span of time Fuse leaves the host. Appearently satified with his run...
" I gotta get going..."

[shonen_mask]

Previous Winter..... District Aurburn near Puyallup


Both Conter and Jan take a look into the shipping container and make note of the brand new cyberdeck components sitting uniformily in the plactic, form fitting-to-shape depressions.
Conter nods his satification while Jan simply straightens and takes the quickest of glances over to his right, past the almost too black van of their co-conspirator and down the street.

Jan then reaches into his coat inner pocket and produces an object about the size of a large flashlight wrapped in a thin opaque material and begins hand it to the tattoed stranger. "You can veriy the package but I'll feel you don't trust us..." He jokes.

Negotiation check.....

[ Spoiler ]

Using alternate dice method for this post

1 - 4 (Avg: 2,5) second set used


Negotiation roll threshold of 4.....


2 - 2 - 4 - 4 - 1 - 3 - 5 - 6 (Avg: 3,375)

1 - 3 - 4 - 6 - 5 - 6 - 6 - 5 (Avg: 4,5) this one 5 hits

5 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 4 - 6 - 4 (Avg: 4,625)

3 - 3 - 6 - 5 - 2 - 2 - 2 - 2 (Avg: 3,125)

The dark stranger smiles and takes the object. "No need." He then stashes the object and heads for the passenger side of the van, and is quickly gone....

Jan then walks to his bike, The grey and black Thundercloud and stashes the trade in his empty guitar case. Empty but in a false back is stashed his trusted weapon of choice. a mean looking sword with a gently arced blade....

Conter is already gone, dissapearing down a side street when Jan roars off, case and trade strapped across his sholders.

[Drace]

[November 15th 2074; Mechanical's Compound, Puyallup]

Frizzen looked down the range at the plas-board cut outs. Many were rendered unrecognizable from their original meta-human images due to the bullet holes blown through them, though sadly the wall behind bore the brunt of most of the spent ammunition. He was more than a little glad that he was able to convince the rest of the tribe to help him set up a firing range in a former sub basement utility tunnel that he had set his workshop in. "Still need to talk to the tribe and see if anyone can get the stuff to rig up a proper node so I can have AR scenery and make this place more realistic..."

It all seemed to be paying off though as he watched the youths in his 'class' taking turns with a variety of weapons he had been able so save up, scavenge and even make in the case of his prize crossbow. Their accuracy was still piss-poor, but several leagues above where it had started a year ago when he had joined the tribe and taken his new name. He was even able to get one of the street kids to assist him with his work, mostly making bullets and cleaning tools, but the little troll showed promise.

The kids, mixed along with several of the 'non-combatants' in the tribe, were starting to use the range and shop to hone their shooting skills even when he wasnt here to supervise and assist them , and the place was starting to make Frizzen feel some pride, some sense of self and belonging again.

He picked back up the busted old street sweeper that had been part of a haul brought back by a scavenging party and sighed contently as he took to work on it, losing himself in his work as he re-straightened the barrel and put a new firing pin in. The schematics overlaying his sight made the job simpler than if he used the electronic paper lining his walls to show them and those were better reserved for showing the recordings of his previous steps should he need to go back and correct a mistake, or to be used with his projector when doing a 'presentation'. "Maybe I should run another home made projectile class soon..." He mutters to no one in particular before getting back to work. Repairing, customizing and modifying the tribes weapons took up most of his free time anyways, maybe in the future he can do another workshop though.

[Drace]

[April 19th 2075 ; Puyallup District]

With a happy sigh Bandit scurries from one set of overflowing trash buns to the next in the recycling center. So far he had collected a good assortment of empty rat poison containers, probably from a misguided and untimely doomed attempt to curb a devil rat problem somewhere nearby, and his mood was good. He had recently run out of lynch's for his preparations, and while both his healing skills in the tribe and his scavenging ability brought him some satisfaction, that pales towards the glee he got from giving his crafted preparations to his tribe-family and those nearby who paid the pack for them. Nearly nothing compared to the look on a persons face as they were told that the container of rat poison in their hand was actually a well crafted alchemical preparation. It didn't hurt that he used mere water and dye to fill them and make them look (and sometimes taste) even less appealing, nor the fact that the container was actually the lynchpin and the liquid wasn't needed to be imbibed.

He had also found a good assortment of odds and ends for his den, including another round trash can lid to add to his collection as well as the flattened carcass of a devil rat he quickly skinned and rolled up before putting both in his sack. "Happy days, happy days!" he mutters to himself, tipping his top hat to the bin he is about to plummet the depths of.

Soon he has enough containers to get started on making more preparations for the tribe-den. The flu has been hitting the barrens hard and only the strong survive.

[Aria]

[Thursday July 18th, 2075; Fre∑dom’s Host, Puyallup]

Caroline, or Briar, stepped naked into the host, clad only in her impossibly long and glowing silvery white hair that gently lilted in the offshore breeze. She basked in the rays of the tropical sun that which, with her deck running hot, felt vastly more real than the tepid summer sun dropping into the Seattle murk outside her room. The air was rich with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle and the obsidian sand crackled beneath her bare toes.

She was on an atoll she had crafted herself, away from the bulk of the system, somewhere she could be alone if she wanted. Whilst she might like to rest she had work to do here at the moment and with a mental flick her bodyglove materialised out of the shifting sands at her feet, clothing her in a rippling wave of pixels that resolved into the briar clad persona that was her trademark. Another command and her deck reconfigured with her attack rating in priority, the glaive appearing in her hand tracing an arc through the air as it ionised the oxygen that was filling her lungs with such clarity.

Leaping across the azure waves she began her patrol of the firewalls, looking for those illusive signs of unwanted attention from the world at large…

***

Cam watched Briar’s composed face as she strode through the digital realms and was glad that he had duties to drag him away, otherwise he’d wind up staring at her for the rest of the evening and getting frustrated that he couldn’t help her. He had no illusions about his mastery of the digital even if he felt its lure almost as strongly as Briar did. Her deck whispered in her hands, brief flickerings indicating the beating heart of the matrix that she saw, but the indicators were green and he wasn’t really concerned. Although there was a sense that the damn corps obsession with control had made the matrix more oppressive, it had weeded out the numbers of annoying incursions on the Fre∑dom host. It meant that any breech was now a more serious affair, but Briar could handle herself and the local gang hackers, the most likely invaders, were no match for her wrath.

Climbing out of their threadbare couch he slung his longcoat on, leaving the basket hilt of his sword free to grasp. Blowing a kiss back to Briar, she would see it later if she bothered to review the sec cam feeds, he pushed on out into the gathering night…

[Aria]

[Thursday Aug 1st, 2075; Status Board]
Filters: {Whole complex} | {coming week} | {all services}

• Building {tag} is currently without water.  A team is working to repair the break, so the water can be turned back on. See {link} for latest estimates on completion.
  
• The air filtration system clean and purge at {tag} was completed yesterday.  Sensors indicate that building air quality has returned to normal.
• The scheduled afternoon power reduction in {tag} for Monday, August 5 has been upgraded to a full outage.  The down time will be used to do maintenance before the lights really go out.  Internal sensors indicate the building system should hold together that long.  Intermittent outages possible over the weekend.
  
• Reminder: If you have a project that needs additional resources, get it authorized!  Without that, your power will be turned off when it exceeds the established limits for the area and time.  Same for other utilities that have limited capacity.

[Thursday Aug 1st, 2075; Current Active Jobs List]

Ongoing Tasks [Refer to your regular schedule, please talk to your contact if you are can’t fulfil your duties]

• Border Patrol [subset: Physical, Astral, Host, Drone (aerial/ground)] Contact: Nimbus
  
• Protection Detail [subset: Tagger’s Junkyard, Seventh Junkyard, Crime Mall] Contact: Bit
  
  
• Security Office [subset: sensor monitoring] Contact: Nimbus
• Maintenance Detail [subset: Power Grid, Matrix Infrastructure, Drone Units, Sensors, HVAC, Water, Sewer] Contact: Bit
  
• Medical Assistant [subset: N/A] Contact: Oyl
  
  
• Food Production [subset: aquaculture, greenhouse, mushrooms] Contact: Bit
• Physical Infrastructure [subset: various] Contact: Various

Specific Tasks [Please refer to the contact for further info]

• Street Doc Background Check [Potential recruit for the clinic] Contact: Oyl
  
• Matrix Rumours [There are stirrings in the blogger community – investigate] Contact: eBreeze
• Courier Run [Take an item to the Toymaker (Cougar Mountain)] Contact: Bit
• Retrieval [Returning stolen medical supplies from a shipment hit on the way to the clinic] Contact: Nimbus

[adamu]

[Thursday August 1st, 2075; Outside Mechanicals compound]

It was still raining when Al pulled his bike up outside the complex of old buildings he’d been told was the digs of some sort of street tribe called the Mechanicals. It had been a long few days.

His plan on his first night back in Seattle had been to blow some of his savings on somewhere posh to stay, a place with fancy sheets, maids in short skirts, and guaranteed security for his bike and his gear. From a plush place like that, he could luxuriate himself for a week or so, looking for a new doss at his leisure.

No sooner, however, had he stepped out of Rocco’s after leaving his new pets with the kooky blond tattoo witch (had she mentioned her name?), than he ran smack into two Gianelli boys. He hadn’t known them, but they had sure known him. Fortunately, unlike them, he’d never been one to suffer slack-jawed surprise, and they were still writhing on the ground when he got back to his bike.

Only after he’d roared away had he realized that, carrying the long guns there with all those cops around, he’d been broadcasting his fake ID and licenses in his damned PAN. Even if they hadn’t seen it themselves, any number of devices in the area would have logged it, and the mafs would doubtless get their hands on it.

Legal channels blown, house hunting would be a goldanged sight harder.

So he’d called a lady he knew named Silk. Good name. She looked like a Silk. She knew a lot of the right kind of people, sort of like Hun, but unlike him she was the real deal. The bad news was that real deals apparently had better things to do than take calls from regular folk like ol’ Al Guthrie. He got voice mail, and with few other options, he had headed for Fort Lewis.

Al loved Fort Lewis. It had huge tracts of uninhabited forests. All off limits, but if you knew how to live off the land and avoid training exercises (and fellow itinerants) it was a good alternative to the Barrens for going way off the grid. No devil rats, no toxic waste. Would have been a picnic had he not just come off a week in the woods. And had it not started raining.

For three nights and two days he’d shivered and near to drowned in a shallow den he’d dug, out of smokes, out of beer, just the turkey he’d salted, before Silk had returned his call that morning.

Trying mightily to keep his teeth from chattering: “Hey, bonjoor and all that...yeah, do find muhself in a spot o’ trouble...oh, ya heard ‘bout that?...warn’t nothin’ for it. We’d shared smokes. That Arty Gianelli’s an asshole anyway...well, good ta know the idiot’s still breathin’, but I wouldn’t put odds on how long. Anyhoo, wuz hopin’ your elegantness could point ol’ Al towards a place ta hang his hat without anyone of the I-talian persuasion catchin’ wind...yeah...yeah...the whut?...they’s whut!?...now you’ll pardon me fer lookin’ a gift horse an’ all o’ that, but that don’t hardly sound like this southern boy’s sorta jamboree...well, I’ll allow as that may be true, but...yeah...yeah...yeah, all right. But I ain’t gon’ go beggin’...whut?...invitation only?...well then whut in blazes we talkin’ ‘bout?...yeah, well, I hope yer say so holds some weight with these freaks...yeah, yeah, I owe you one, if this works out, that is...”

And so two hours later here he was. Barely five klicks from where the wise guys had spotted him three days earlier. Brilliant. Sitting astride his dirt bike outside the closest thing he could figure for a front gate. Elbows on handlebars, burn-melted hands well away from his sideslung weapons. Acid rain pouring down on his head, running in rivulets down the crooked line of his thrice-broken nose.

“HEY, ANYBODY IN THERE GOT A SMOKE?”

[adamu]

[Thursday August 1st, 2075; Outside Mechanicals compound]
Comm mode - silent ; wireless capability switched off on all devices

Eyes sharp for any sort of response, Al could see that although the rain had sent folk for cover, there was actually a lot of activity around the place. Wondering if he’d chosen the right spot, he thought of nosing his bike a bit deeper into the cluster of buildings. The limits of their comfort zone were pretty clearly marked though, so he elected to mind his manners and keep a respectful distance.

Hell, it wasn’t like he could get any wetter.

[Drace]

August 1st 2075

Walking briskly in the rain, Frizzen stops and looks down the street at the man on the motorcycle. 'Drek, must be new to the compound...' He thinks to himself. While he was enroute to meet with Nimbus concerning a retrieval job as well as joining the next protection run to the crime mall so he could also acquire enough supplies to get his bullet press off the ground, he decided asking what the man wanted and figuring out if he was looking to trade or trouble.

Making sure in his PAN that the safeties are off for his smg, the machine pistol in his quick draw holster on his hip, and the taser in the slide up his sleeve, he walks towards the stranger and engages his smart link system. 'Can't ever be too careful...'

"Ola chummer! What can we do ya for? You looking for someone o' sumthin in particular?"

[adamu]

[Thursday August 1st, 2075; Outside Mechanicals compound]
Comm mode - silent ; wireless capability switched off on all devices

Here we go, Al sighed inwardly. The ork approaching him had brass eyes with something spinning around in them, and a brass-capped tusk to match. And then there was the mohawk...with a braid in the front! Big feller, though. Looked like he knew his way around. Well, if he was going to bunk down with a bunch of techno-hippies, might as well be sociable.

"Hey there, kemo sabe, name's Al Guthrie, an' I'll be straight with ya. Lookin' fer somewhere ta lie low. Mutual acquaintance name o' Silk said this might be the place, an' I got cred. So if any o' that sounds workable, maybe ya got a patch 'o dry 'round here where a body kin talk."

[Drace]

[August 1st 2075; Tribal compound, Puyallup]


Null 'sheen chummer, place ya ride off to tha side for now. I'll contact tha bosses and tell 'em Silk sent ya. he says with a friendly gesture towards a nearby building front with an overhand wide enough to cover the man and his bike.

With a quick mental command Frizzen takes a quick image capture and directs his Commlink to place a message to Oyl and Nimbus while walking towards the overhang himself.

@Oyl@Nimbus <<Text based message-- Oyl, Nimbus, we got a man here looking for a place to lay low. Says Silk sent him and he has Cred, looks rough and don't know what he is looking to lay low from. {image insertion} Want me to check him and bring him to you?>>

With the message sent he sets his Comm to active so the rest of both tribes can find and see him if things go south and waits for the man to move his bike towards him.

[adamu]

[Thursday August 1st, 2075; Mechanicals compound]
Comm mode - silent ; wireless capability switched off on all devices

The tusker was calm and friendly. But Al sensed he was wary as well. Just to be as non-threatening as possible, he got off the bike and pushed it through the mud to the indicated overhang.

Once out of the rain: "Much obliged, amigo. Ya got a smoke?"

[Drace]

August 1st 2075; Tribal Compound, Puyallup


With a chuckle Frizzen shakes his head. "Sorry chum, no luck on that front, never took to that addiction myself. Too much cost, not enough reward. Though ya could easily bum a few from some of the others."

Scratching te sides of his head he looks the man up and down. "Ya got a name? And any chance ya willing ya say why you lookin' ta lay low or who you layin' low from? I let the boss know ya'z here but would be good to know why n' drek.". With that the ork settles himself agaisnt the wall and waits for word from above.

[adamu]

[Thursday August 1st, 2075; Mechanicals compound]
Comm mode - silent ; wireless capability switched off on all devices

"Al's good 'nuff." Shaking the water off a burn-mottled hand, he offered it to the ork. "Had me a disagreement with a Family man. Not sure they's all in it, but there's at least one Gianelli underboss'd like to see ol' Al's head onna pike, I reckon."

[Machine Ghost]

August 1st 2075; Tribal Compound, Puyallup

@Frizzen,@Oyl,@Bit[Nimbus]: <<{link to Frizzen’s message}
Silk sent message to expect "Al Guthrie", aka Old Al.  Description matches.  Al pulled a chummer out of a hot spot right in front of Vincent Gianelli’s face, trashing Vincent’s limo in the process.  Destroying the ride made it personal, and Vincent has not cooled off yet.  Any of family that are not as bit brain as Vincent are having trouble keeping a straight face around Vincent, which is not helping his blood pressure (IMG:style_emoticons/default/smile.gif)   Bit, Al has strong mechanical background.  Seems to like working with his hands.  Potential resource for most any repair work around here.  Frizzen, point him at any reasonably dry shelter.  He’s not expecting 5 star.  Probably would not know what to do with it, if he had it.>>

@Security Office,@Patrols[Nimbus]: <<Unaffiliated visitor (Al) Guthrie {image} on site, tentatively authorized to crash.  Anybody looking, we never heard of him.>>

@Nimbus,@Frizzen[Oyl]: <<ACK N.  F., point him at the soup kitchen.  I'll see if he is as mangy as he looks while he gets a hot meal.>>

[Drace]

[August 1st 2075; Tribal Compound, Puyallup]

Frizzen accepts the offered hand and gives it a friendly shake before pointing to a garage storage down a ways. "Tha name's Frizzen. S'a pleasure to meet ya chummer. Boss lady says to get you nice and dry and to swing by for some grub. You can store the ride here for now till ya get a better accommodations."

With that he gives the man a hand pushing his bike the few feet towards the garage, offering a spare spill tarp to cover the vehicle before "offering" to lead the way.

@Oyl@Nimbus <<Text based message-- Understood, bringing Al by the soup kitchen after storing his ride out of sight. See ya soon.

Oh and is there any of the "chicken" soup left?>>

@Bit <<Text based message-- Was wanting to come and ask when next mall run was, low on supplies for press. Busy for now but info would be greatly appreciated>>

"Tha' kitchen is just this way chummer."

[adamu]

[Thursday August 1st, 2075; Mechanicals compound]
Comm mode - silent; wireless capability switched off on all devices

Al held his reaction to a briefly raised eyebrow when Frizzen mentioned a "boss lady." Par for the course around here, he figured. He silently congratulated himself on his easy acclimation to the brave new world he was living in.

He nodded thanks to the big ork for his help with the bike, and for the tarp. While they walked to the kitchen he attempted to bum a cigarette off of every single person they encountered until he finally scored a smoke. Now if only this kitchen had some beer, he'd be half way to human again.

As they entered, he asked his guide, "So, not meaning' ta come off unmannerly or nothin', but if'n ya don't mind my askin', that affect yer vision some, them things spinnin' round in yer eyeballs?"

[Drace]

[August 1st 2075; Tribal Compound, Puyallup]

With a quick chuckle, Frizzen raps on his brass cybereyes. "Nah chummer, it's all good. Love talkin' 'bout dem. Bud they're just for show. You know ascetic 'n drek. I change the colours around every so often when I'm bored and can make dem tighten or widen. Seems like my eyes narrow or widen as if real ya know?".

Frizzen starts to walk briskly again and eventually gets to a set of doors and opens them to reveal the soup kitchen. "You ain't got no allergies I hope? Some o' da best fresh food in tha Plex here, let alone tha barrens."

[Machine Ghost]

August 1st 2075; Oyl’s Soup Kitchen, Tribal Compound, Puyallup

The main entrance to the Soup Kitchen is down a single flight of stairs from the street, near the East edge of the area the tribes have made their own.  Passing through the doors, you are assaulted by the typical smells of bulk prepared food, but with tantalizing hints of other things not so usual in low end eateries.  The space has been renovated and re-purposed so many times, that it is no longer possible to determine what it was originally intended for.  Plenty of space though.  Enough headroom that only the largest troll would have to be careful about snagging the horns.  The area is vaguely rectangular, but the outline is broken up by sections that jut into or out of the neighbouring spaces.  Tables, chairs, benches, nothing matching, nothing fancy, in varying qualities are spread around somewhat haphazardly.  It all looks fairly solid though.  Pieces of the furnishings show signs of ‘artistic’ work, themed in technopunk styles, but not a lot of consistency.  It would appear the work was done by various craftspeople.  Some of which were not that skilled. 

Near a hallway exiting at the far right, there are a couple of people sitting at a table holding mugs of some beverage.  A small drone cleaning the floor toward the right and back bumps into a chair, the sound drawing your attention momentarily to is methodical progress.  That brings a realization.  The place actually looks clean.  Not the “you eat off the floor, don't you dare leave a smudge” sort of clean, but well used, with regularly maintenance and cleaning.  Cared for.

The rest of the people are over to the left side, nine currently visible.  A young looking troll is watching over a relatively standard food processing unit, and some food preparation supplies.  He seems to be trying to look diligent, although he is not actually doing anything at the moment.  The sort of diligence some children get when they know some ‘authority’ is watching them.  A human man and an ork woman are sitting alone with partly emptied plates before of them.  A dwarf man, human woman, and 2 elves, male and female are at a third table having a quiet conversation, no food in sight.  A mature ork woman is talking to a human man at another table, both holding soykaf mugs.

At your entrance, most glance up, then quickly away.  All but the kid and the second ork womman typify street people that survive by knowing what is happening around them, and by not drawing attention to themselves.  The Ork woman says something more, then gets up, heading your way.  It‘s hard to judge, since Orks mature so fast, but you figure she is probably less than 20 years old.  The young troll visibly relaxes as she moves away.

As she nears, she starts to speak, and you unconsciously relax a little.  It is the kind of voice that makes the listener feel at home, welcome, cared for and about.

@Al+@Frizzen[Oyl]: “Don’t let him kid you too much.  We do have some fresh, direct from the gardens, but not enough to say the whole meal is real food.

I'm Oyl.  I try to make sure things go smoothly around here.  The meals normally contain a lot of krill and myocprotein from our own harvests, but if you have an allergy to soy, we would need to take extra care.  We are fairly casual about it, since anyone with a real allergy knowns to ask.  At least they learn after a couple of times where they should have asked.  We do make it known”, with a gesture ahead to the area with the food processing unit,  “that it is not all or only soy being served, since that is the usual assumption for someone new.”

As she has been talking she also been leading the way back towards the food.  Closer now, you see that there are several sheets of electronic paper with short messages in several languages tacked up where people approaching will see them.  The English just says, “Not only soy in this food”.  The Arabic translates to something like “Food contains soy alternate”.  You see several other languages that you vaguely recognize, but nothing for Khmer or Tamasheq.  The last not being any surprise.

@Frizzen[Oyl]: “There is still some of the chicken soup flavouring, and the celery is fresh this morning.  The chicken broth base is mostly from the powdered mushrooms.”

You notice that the troll is tense and fidgety again.

[adamu]

[Thursday August 1st, 2075; Mechanicals compound soup kitchen]
Comm mode - silent; wireless capability switched off on all devices

Following after the she-ork, leaving a trail of water dripping in his wake, the short man tried to listen but lost the thread with the allergy talk. Of course he didn’t have any damned allergies. Anyway, he was distracted by what Frizzen had said about changing the sizes and colors of his eyes. He tried to imagine wanting to change how he looked. He couldn’t. But then, he had to concede, he was a lot better looking than most people on the planet, so his attitude was understandable. He congratulated himself not only on his timelessly attractive features but on his humble but realistic self-assessment. Came back to the moment when the woman pointed out the polyglot of signage surrounding the food processor. Appreciated it wasn’t AR, but he reckoned there was plenty of that around a place like this as well.

Scratching at the stubble on his sunken cheek with a dirty yellow fingernail, he figured this Oyl was someone that could decide things. As the food was served up, he ventured, “This is a fine lookin’ spread, fine indeed. Mighty Christian of ya. But if’n you’ll pardon gettin’ down ta brass tacks, wonderin’ what y’all’s hospitality gon’ set ol’ Al back. Jist that I like to pay muh own way, ya see. Way I wuz raised. No offense meant, nacherly.”

[Machine Ghost]

August 1st 2075; Oyl’s Soup Kitchen, Tribal Compound, Puyallup

Oyl Nods, and gives a tusky smile.
@Al[Oyl]: “Good, we like that kind of attitude around here.

Most guests pay what they can, when they can.  Folks that have fallen on some hard times still need to eat.  I hear you want to spend a bit of time with us though.  Today is free.  After that, you can either get your own supplies, or pay about the same as it would cost to eat at one of the chain restaurants, that serve mostly soy.  You eat here, you get whatever the special of the day is.  No menu to pick from.  We try to vary that, but it does depend on what happens to be available.  Unless you check the online bulletin board, and someone”, with a mock scowl at the kid, “remembers to update it, you won't know what that is till you get here.

Somewhat the same for a place to get out of the weather, and a place to sleep where you do not need to always keep one eye open.  With a bit of extra for us having a stranger that close. Your … recommendation will get you that far.

I believe you will recognize a saying about the devil and idle hands.  If you plan to do more than hibernate here, like a bear in a den, there is another choice.  If you have the will, and some skill, there are always things that need doing or repairing.  Both to keep the tribe running, and to bring in Nuyen from outside.  Think about putting some shifts in on short term projects, and with the maintenance crews.  Won't change the food here any, but it means an immediate upgrade on the squat, and you won't be a stranger long.  We can make sure that any work site, at least within the complex, is not going to put your face where it will be noticed by anyone from the port area.  Depending on your work, that could cover the obvious costs, and maybe more.  Not a lot of extra cash around, but we do have some … resources.  Take time to think on that while you eat.  It’s not good to make important decisions on an empty stomach”.

She takes a swallow of her soykaf, and her eyes go sort of unfocused for a few seconds.  Then she gets up and says,
@Al[Oyl]: “When you are done, you can let Clack”, with a gesture toward the troll, “know what you want to do.  He can pass the word”.

@Frizzen[Oyl]: “Thanks for bringing him over Frizzen”.

@Al[Oyl]: “I said today was free, but Clack is always ready to accept donations.  Either for here, or for the clinic”, with a wave toward the far side of the room where the other 2 were a bit earlier.  They are gone now, but someone just came in with their arm in a sling, and headed that direction.  Oyl walks over to Clack, and says a few words.  He responds, going a mile a minute.  She listens for a moment, then interrupts him with a word and a cutting gesture.  He hesitates, then says something more calmly.  Oyl nods and heads over toward the clinic area that she had pointed out.  The kid reminds you of a pup that just made another mess.  The look said, “I know I did bad, and I tried so hard, but I forgot.  I’ll do better.  Really I will”.

[adamu]

[Thursday August 1st, 2075; Mechanicals compound soup kitchen]
Comm mode - silent; wireless capability switched off on all devices

Al listened carefully to the woman while he ate. He didn’t know her from Eve, of course, but she struck him as someone who’d had to grow up fast, even for one of her kind. Maybe so fast she’d forgotten how to go back once in a while.

Or maybe all that was just her biz face.

He thought about her offers as he ate. Food wasn’t bad, but right now it didn’t matter. He downed it as fast as he could - he couldn’t decide which he needed more and faster, a dry bed or a wet beer, and neither was in this soup kitchen. In any case, he didn’t have to think long. These seemed like decent folk, maybe reliable too. He’d be happy to do some work around this place, but he wasn’t about to make a commitment until he knew them better. And maybe not then. Lot of strange and fantastical stuff here. Damned hippies.

By the time the food was gone, so was his bummed cigarette. He reached into the inside pocket of his prehistoric brown leather jacket before remembering he was out. Turned to Frizzen, busy with his chicken-ish soup, before remembering the big ork didn’t smoke. Best speed things along.

He looked at Clack. Seemed like a good enough kid. Working for a living. But Al wasn’t too sure he trusted him with a complex message. He fished his MetaLink out and tapped out a text. It read, Dear Ms. Oyl, thank you for your kindness. I will certainly be delighted to help out with the work around here as the need arises. However, I am quite busy at the moment with some personal projects, so for the nonce will take the cash option on both room and board. Your kitchen here suits my tastes just fine. For accommodation, I require no more than electricity, cold running water, a toilet and sink, and enough space for a small cot, my bike, car, and a few tools. Will pay whatever is fair, including the “extra” you most reasonably alluded to, and will pay in advance. That arrangement in place, I will then nonetheless be pleased to help you out with anything I can, preferably a repair or improvement project without a tight deadline where I can set my own hours. I can fix, install or upgrade anything with three dimensions and moving parts. In exchange, we can talk about some of the services you mentioned once you have seen my work. I abide your faithful servant, Alouicious Harlan Guthrie, esq.

He attached the message to a hundred-nuyen credit transfer and stood up. He nodded at Frizzen: “Thanks fer the welcome, omae. Meant a lot.” He deposited his tray in the appropriate place, and approached the young troll. “Al Guthrie, muh friend, but you kin jist call me Al. The good lady said you were set up fer donations, if you’ll jist point me to where ya want the cred.” Making the transfer, her added, “I tacked a message fer yer boss onto that payment, an’ I am countin’ on you ta make sure she gits it, right?” Then he slipped the boy a cash tenner and sat back down, his jeans making a wet sound as they pressed into the plastic chair.

[Machine Ghost]

August 1st 2075; Oyl’s Soup Kitchen, Tribal Compound, Puyallup

Clack reaches behind the food processor and brings out a reader to accept the donation.  On his very best behaviour he says,
@Al[Clack]: “Thank-you sir.  …  Mr. Al … Al”.
Al realizes, now that he hears him, that the troll, in spite of his size, really is just a kid.  His voice still has not finished changing.  Accepting the hard cred, he looks at it, puzzling something over in his head, then shrugs and pockets it.
@Al[Clack]: “Thank-you again … Al”.
He pulls the coiled universal connector cable out from the commlink strapped to his upper arm, and plugs it into the port on the reader, then gets the far away look, and does the finger twitches of someone using an AR interface.  There is brief pause, a nod then,
@Al[Clack]: “Miss Osha … Oyl, has the message, and confirmed getting it.  Stay chilled for couple”.
He seems to want to say more, but restrains himself, and gets busy’s putting the reader away, and doing not much with the food processor, eyeing Al speculatively occasionally.  Less than the specified 2 minutes later, Al’s commlink indicates an incoming text message.

@Al,@Clack[Oyl]: <<Accepted.  Clack can take 600 to cover the next week.  We’ll see then.  This {ARO} would lead you to your digs, but I notice you do not use that much.  Clack, it’s quiet today, and your shift is about done.  Switch signage to self-serve, then you can show Mr. Guthrie the way.  2nd floor, above the Tractor Garage, unit 25.  You know where the key is supposed to be, and there better not be any spares floating around.  Al, the unit has a little furniture.  Should be a cot and couch.  There is an overhang at the back that will keep the worst of the weather off the vehicles.  If you want hot water, you can fix the jammed valve.  See Bit {commcode} or Clack (or others) can direct you, to requisition tools and parts needed that you do not have in your own kit.  Same when you are ready to see what needs doing.  Welcome.  --Oyl>>

When Al looks up from reading the message, it is to see an unusual sight.  An embarrassed teenage troll has a lot of face to turn red.  Avoiding Al’s eye, he hands him the credstick reader again, then busies himself with the AR and physical signs.  When he is done, each of the electronic paper messages has an extra couple of lines after the content warning, "Please serve yourself, but keep it clean" and "Ring ARO for assistance".  Taking the reader back, he connects the cable to it for a few seconds again, then puts it down, in front of the food processor this time.  Still not really looking at Al, he says,
@Al[Clack]: “I ’kn show you where now, when you ready”.

[adamu]

Thursday August 1st, 2075; Mechanicals compound

Cred slotted, Al rasped, “Son, I wuz born ready. Lead on, Jeeves.”

Back into the rain, and the young troll headed one way, but Al stopped him, explaining he had to get his bike. “Hell, ever’thin’ I own in this fleeting world o’ darkness an’ pain is strapped ta that there dirt bike. An’ hey, speakin’ o’ this crazy world, why’n’cha ‘splain ta ol’ Al a bit about this place?”

He had assumed it would not take much to get the troglet’s mouth running, and he’d been right. He gathered what he could as he pushed his bike through the mud, and soon they were at the Tractor Garage. Sounded promising. Parking the bike as far back under the overhang as he could, he unloaded it. The kid offered to help, but he’d have none of it. “Man’s gotta carry his own weight.” Still, he was surprised that he was able to handle the whole load. He’d expected to need two trips up the stairs, but made it in one. The week in the woods had been good for him. He should have done that years ago, instead of wasting time on herbs and needles and all that crap.

Once inside, he dismissed the troll and took a look around. Hell of a lot better than his last place. No trid, but not flooded either. Not the Ritz, but then, given the circumstances, it was the Ritz. Wasted no time in stripping down, hanging his drenched T-shirt, jeans, socks, and skivvies on whatever projections he could find.

Looking outside, he could see it was a good eight hours or so until dark. He made up the cot and got in. This was usually the part where he prayed he’d be able to sleep, but at this moment, he didn’t care - he was happy just to lie there, dry, warm, and horizontal.