IC: Fading into Nothing, Ghost Reportin' Options

[FXcalibur]

OOC Thread

Downtown is a mess. The National Guard has arrived just moments ago and the Star is struggling to hold back the wave of curious onlookers and reporters. Six, seven, maybe more military vehicles lie crashed and burning on the asphalt with a ferocious gun battle still taking place within the skyscraper before them. Contact with Delta is lost. All hell has broken loose, and for the runners within perhaps more so.

Flashback to a few hours ago…

- - - - -

“Ah, good morning, my trollish friend.” The Star policeman smiled as he pushed open the door to Spikehead’s Touristville donut café. The smallish Troll looked up from his newspapers, freshly printed from the Matrix, and smiled back, sliding a box of donuts across the counter to the officer.

“So, Spike my man, how’s business?” The officer asks between mouthfuls of creamy delight.

“Café’s doing good.” The troll replies without even looking up from his papers. “The other business…pretty quiet.”

“Blimey. But you know what they say, workload builds up. Meaning you’ll get a big catch one ‘a these days.”

Spike opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted by the shrill ring of his Tridphone upstairs.

“Say Charlie. I need to go…”
“Yeah sure, chum. I’ll look over the bar for a while. I’m on break anyway.”
“Thanks.”

The little troll lazily crawled up the steps to his room and turned on the receiver. What he saw then made him rub his eyes in disbelief. But sure enough…

“Holy Hell, it’s you.” He said, finally regained his composure.
“Yes. It’s been a long time, my good troll. Very long. I wish I could say this was a social calling, but I have a job. And I need top talent. I assume you still know where to find them?”
“…Something’s gone horribly wrong again, hasn’t it?”
“You could say that.”

- - - - -

It’s a bright and sunny morning here in Somewhere, USA. Lancer Headquarters has just begun operations for the day, and its’ Mediator staff has gathered around their office coffee table to, what else, drink coffee and talk shop. Most of the Mediators still seem half asleep, the other half are wondering about the new client the organization has just picked up.

Nicole tapped her cyberears, activating the morning radio and sipped her coffee. A file appeared on her desk, and the secretary just winked at her.

“You’ve gotten lucky.”

Nicole took another sip of her coffee and picked up the envelope, scanning through the details. When her eyes laid rest on the client’s name, her coffee came violently out of her mouth.

“Nic, what’s going on?” Her coworkers rushed over. “You alright?”

“Fine…just…fine.” She wiped her mouth with a nearby tissue. “I’m just…going to need to make some calls now.”

- - - - -

“Hoi, listen up chummers!” Spike bellows into his tridphone message. “I’m tapping my most qualified men and women, and that means you. I’ve got a run for you, high profile. Get to the Eye of the Needle restaurant, in the Space Needle building Downtown by 2pm today. Dress your fragging best, and I mean it! And for the love of god, don’t bring in any big guns.”

“Operators…” Nicole typed into her message. “If you’ve received this message, you have been short-listed for a high profile, Type A contract. You’re the best the League can offer, and we’re calling you in. If you’re interested, go to the Eye of the Needle, located in the Space Needle building downtown. The meet will be under the guise of a formal gathering, and I hope I do not need to tell you that it is imperative you dress for success today. League out.”

- - - - -

Spike and Nicole stepped out of their cars simultaneously across the parking lot, and came face to face in the life up the Space Needle. The little troll had on his best tux and Nic was decked out in the latest Zoé corporate threads. The two of them slid into the lift warily eying each other, it was only when the doors closed did the silence break.

“…The League too, huh?”
“…Yeah.”
“I can’t believe he’d call in the Lancers.”
“I can’t believe he called you.”

The lift door slid open with a deft DING, and the two walked out hand in hand towards the Eye of the Needle. It was a practice in disguise for the two old friends.

“Just walk in casually and nobody gives two hoots.” Spike whispered. “Just like old times.”
“Yeah, but this time its’ business. Serious business.”

They made towards the back of the quaint restaurant, one of the private rooms. The moment they stepped in, a large group of burly men and women dressed in black turn to face them and holding together their stony complexions, snap on rubber gloves in perfect concert.

“We’re not going to like this, are we?”
“You said a mouthful, Nic.”

- - - - -

After a bit of roughhousing, the fixer and mediator are allowed into the real backroom – a magnificent circular room with a large oaken table, with windows overlooking the Seattle skyline. Quaint foodstuffs have already been laid out before each of the seats – for each of the runners involved. Ten armed and armoured guards stand at attention at one end of a table, where a man sits in a grand black leather swivel chair.

“Will they be here soon?” He croaks.
“Most definitely.” The fixer and mediator reply, casually adjusting their ties.

[TinkerGnome]

Getting a cab to downtown was going to be hell, Axe could tell. Even on a good day, getting around without a car or resorting to the tubes took real work in the best of times, and with the miasma that was downtown traffic today, it looked impossible.

"Frag," he muttered to himself, looking at the long walk to the Eye of the Needle he sighed and rolled his eyes. The slight elven woman beside him sighed as well. He looked at her for a moment, as though seeing her for the first time. "Marelle, you're no help like that. Get back to normal."

Marelle looked miffed but faded from view briefly before returning in a different form. He reached out and slipped a hand around her slender neck and ran his hand along her body. Gently, he ran his hand across her and spent a moment listening to the sound she made.

However, none of that helped him get downtown, so he slung the guitar form of his ally over his shoulder instead. She'd been growing more willful of late, and insisted on appearing as a humanoid. He hadn't even realized she had the form, since it was a side effect of his forumale.

He turned his mind back to the matter at hand and shifted his vision astral. Big spirits in downtown were a bad idea, of course, but he wasn't really in downtown right now. He called out to the city itself and brought forth a piece of its spirit to serve as his guide. And then another and another and another.

He let most of them vanish back into the ether, but asked questions of the last to answer his call.

"What's the fastest way across town to the big needle pointy thing?"

[Cheesy Answer]

"Chandra." Kadel read the name off her nametag. "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

The clerk blushed, and said, "That'll be six dollars, please."

He fished a credstick out of his pocket and slid it across the counter. "This place is pretty empty. Is it always like this, or is it just today?"

The girl shrugged. "I dunno. Its been pretty quiet around the store lately. I think it's because of that whole toxic shaman fiasco last week...people are afraid to leave their homes."

He nodded, with a faint smile on his face. "Well, since there's no one around, is there any chance you would want to blow this joint and go get a cup of coffee with me or something?"

The girl giggled, and shook her head. "My boss will kill me."

Kadel gave a mock sigh. "Alas. All those damn bosses, always ruining everyone's fun, neh? Oh well...there's always next time. See ya around, Chandra."

He winked at her, and she laughed merrily. Pocketing the pack of cigarettes that he bought, he pushed open the door with one hand and walked outside. As soon as he hit the sidewalk, the screaming voice of Motley Crue singing "Too Young to Fall in Love" announced that someone was trying to place a call to him. He took his cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and pressed it against his ear.

"Yeah?"

Five minutes later, he was riding shotgun in a cab that was practically flying down the street towards Downtown Seattle.

[PBTHHHHT]

Roland groaned as he heard the call ringing from his pocket secretary. He had just finished a 'wonderful' evening with his team responding to a triple shooting, one of them was a platinum holder. It might have been a deal gone bad or a random shooting, Roland will never know. But the gangers began blazing away at their vehicle when they arrived at the scene. Typical response by gangers to wailing sirens and the blazing lights, and of course that means Roland can respond in full.

The gangers were young punks, probably never had taken fire from an assault rifle. The ones who survived are likely scarred for life and maybe piss in their pants if they ever hear the rifle retort again. It only took two bodies hitting the ground to make the survivors leave.

Roland remember helping to resuscitate the client who's wrist bracelet still wailed away, he even remember turning it off after they had stabilized the client, some corporate slot in his fancy digs. The other two were probably bodyguards judging by their size and pistols not far from their fallen bodies. All were stabilized and loaded up into the ambulance. Roland noted that one of the gangers was still alive, gurgling blood from his mouth.

Roland felt sorry for the kid, barely out of his diapers, but that kid also had a shotgun that was aimed in his direction. Nothing he could do right now, corporate policy dictates that the clients come first and must be taken to the clinic as soon as possible. The wails of the Lone Star patrol car was getting louder and they'll be here soon, maybe they'll get there in time to watch the kid expire... or worse, they might make sure he does expire. He's known a few in his time, good officers all, but some of them had a few screws loose.

Roland barely listened to the voice as his voicemail clicked in, but bolted straight up when he heard the job offer from Spike who talked in his usual brusque manner. The Doc Wagon gig was good pay, but this was where he earned the big bucks. He dashed about to get dressed up for the meet when the second message came in from Lancer HQ. As he was putting on his custom body armor first before the rest of his clothes....

'Hmmm.... this is serious, both Spikehead and Lancer HQ are calling about a job that meets at the same place. Coincidence? Drek no. Something big is happening, I wonder if I can get paid twice....? hehe, wishful thinking.'

Roland looked at his armor as he suited up.... He better get it washed the next time he has a chance. 'No big weapons? Well, it's the Needle, if anything happens there, we're screwed anyways, weapons or no.' Roland loaded up his Americar remember to pack in his gear and some of his weapons in case it's a rush job. You never know, he's been fragged once before, damn johnsons never saying its a rush job till at the meet itself....

Roland started up his car and eased into traffic, driving for the Needle....

[GreatChicken]

"Do you have a reservation, sir?"

At the doors of the Space Needle Restaurant, high within the building that once served as a tourist attraction, a formally dressed waiter approaches a new visitor, a geriatric who looks as if he's just hit his 50th or 60th birthday or so. The old man doesn't seem to be paying one bit of attention to him, instead craning his neck and scanning the restaurant's interior, as if looking for something...or someone.

After repeating his question and getting no response, the waiter gets slightly annoyed. He taps the visitor on his shoulder.

"...Uh...Excuse me, SIR?"

"YEEK!"

The old man jumps, completely taken by suprise. The waiter was taken aback by his reaction, and nearly drops the pocket secretary he is holding.

"Dumbkopf! Do NOT scare me like zat! Are almost givink me heart attack..."

His voice trails off as both he and the waiter realizes that the entire restaurant is staring at them. There was this long uncomfortable silence...then the patrons shrug - almost in unision - and go back to their meals, conversations and glasses of wine.

They both swiftly regain their composure, the better to avoid further embarassment.

"...Oh. Am sorry. Vat do you vant?"

"*Ahem*...do you have a reservation, sir?"

"Ja. Please to be lookink for ze name Spike. Am to be havink important meetink with him inside."

The waiter calls up a list in his secretary, and looks over the names, periodically jabbing at the screen with a stylus...

"Hmm...Sperry...Spiegel...ah, Spike."

He pauses, looking over the entry, eyes darting between the stylus and the old man. The entry had the attached comment 'Expecting informal guests', and the old man, clad in a white, unbuttoned thick lab coat that has barely noticable remnants of soot stains, with an equally not-quite-so-clean plain white T-shirt within.

This being a posh place and all, he'd normally politely ask the visitor to get changed into something more decent, despite the customer's request. However, the customer in question wasn't sitting out in the open...so he let it slide.

"One of the private back rooms, down that row. I'll take you there. And your name, please?"

"Am Theodor. Vithout ze 'e' at ze end, please."

[Shadow]

Downtown paused a moment at the bottom of the needle. The view from the bottom, while not as breathtaking as the one from the top, was equally useful. The Seattle Center and the Music experience had stood the test of time and the test of the awakening. the building built nearly a hundred years before for the now defunct worlds fair had been sold and purchased and remolded so many times it was doubtful the original designers would recognize it. But it was still their. A landmark on the sky-line. Dwarfed by the Arcolgy and made to be insignificant next to the grander of the Aztec pyramid, but still wonderful to those who call Seattle home.

After leaving the service the Ork had tried to find a place that fit him. His home town of Atlanta seemed wrong some how. It took a few years but Seattle was it. He was a tried and true Seattleite now.

He waited in line to take the tourist elevator up. It took half an hour but it was less conspicuous then the restaurant elevator. He was dressed in black slacks and a tan pullover. His nicest armored coat was doubled over in his left hand. It was too damn hot to be wearing armor, especially when he didn't have to.

It was highly unlikely anything was going to go south at such a public meeting. So he entered the elevator weaponless but not without a means of defending himself, he was an Ork after all.

The ride up was uncomfortably full, he had to breath through his mouth to avoid the stink of all those people in such a confined quarters.

Once in the restaurant he made his way to the back room and knocked twice, "Downtown here," he said and was let in. The armed guards cause his eyebrow to twitch and make him rethink his 'no guns' strategy. He nonchalantly slipped his coat back on in the air conditioned room.

"So, what's the skinny?"

[Cheesy Answer]

Kadel handed a credstick to the cabbie and stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk just outside the Space Needle. Gazing upwards at the majestic building, he let out an impressed whistle.

Nice place...gotta remember it.

Crossing the parking lot, Kadel made his way through the revolving doors at the entrance. He spotted a trendily dressed man standing with a clipboard in his hand, and headed over to him.

"Name's Kadel, I'm looking for a guy named Spikehead."

The host raised a skeptical brow at the names he was given. Evidently deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, the man traced his finger down the list of guests on the clipboard. His eyes widened even more when he was halfway down - apparently he had found the names. The host gave him the room and directions with an embarrassed smile, and Kadel nodded his thanks before walking away.

Spotting an elevator door that was just beginning to close, he dashed over to it and made his way into the car amongst a suffocating crowd of people. As the doors closed and the elevator began moving up, he suddenly remembered the pistol that was tucked snugly inside the holster on his belt.

Oh well. Spike only said not to bring any big guns.

As the elevator climbed higher, the crowd began to thin out, until he was the only one left. A soft "ding" announced that he had arrived at his destination, and the doors slowly slid open. Stepping out, Kadel came face to face with a group of men and women dressed in clothes that practically screamed "secret agent." One of them broke off and headed towards him. It took a moment before Kadel noticed the gloves he was wearing.

He stared at the gloves. Then at the man. Then at the gloves. And then back at the man.

"Aw, hell no!" he groaned as he realized what was in store for him.

Screw you, Spike. This is coming straight out of the ten bucks I owe you, you goddamn trog.

[last_of_the_grea...]

Terry is keeping his head down! What the hell happenned? One minute, he's a tourist, enjoying his vacation. The next he's gone to ground as it all hits the fan. Some old instinct kicked in before it all happenned, he couldn't say what it was or why it worked, but he was glad it did. He knew his best...his ONLY chance was to stay dug in and wait. He was glad he'd sprung for the international gun licence now. It was expensive, but that same instince said it might be needed. He fingered the thing under his jacket, but didn't draw it. If he needed it, it would be there, but somehow a drawn weapon was like a magnet...everyone would find him if he chose to be a part of the action instead of watching and waiting.

He could feel the terror all around, like a physical force that could be touched. He could smell the corodite and hear the shots ring out.Bloody UCAS! The place was a stain on the North American map! Anything bad that could happen happened in the UCAS! The plcae was a nightmare...and Seattle...well, this was his last Seattle vacation ever! Hopefully that would be by choice and not death!

[Panzergeist]

Slash listens to the message, and walks into Burn's bedroom, only to find him occupied by a comcall of his own. As Burn deactivates the telecom, he turns to Slash and opens his mouth just as Slash opens his. "We've got a job meet at the Eye of the Needle at 2 PM!" they shout simultaneously. An awkward silence follows.

"Spikehead and the Lancers both recruiting for the same rush job?" Slash ponders. "This is some heavy shit." The pair quickly put on some appropriate clothing and toss all their gear into the trunk of Slash's Ford Americar. Dressed in a set of fine clothing over a rapid transit heavy jumpsuit over form-fitting body armor, Slash parks outside the space needle and reluctantly enters armed only with his cell phone, pocket secretary, and trusty wirecutters. But hey, the space needle is perfectly safe, right? Nothing short of a tacnuke could breach its security.

[PBTHHHHT]

Roland weaves through the downtown Seattle traffic. The Renraku arcology looming nearby, one of various high rises and arcologies, but one of the more infamous. Poor slots, Roland thought of the thousands who were in there when the lockdown occurred and how few will ever see the outside world again. Still not too clear about what happened, but Roland had seen some of the corpses stashed by the city. His contacts had leaked it to him as a favor. Something he'll never forget.

Roland pulls into the Needle parking and gets out of his car, scanning the area. He goes through the motion of dusting the fanciest jacket he had in possession before putting it on and walked to the Needle entrance, nodding to the doorman.

The elevator even had an attendant as Roland stepped in. The cycled music piping in, Roland wondered if the attendant ever goes crazy listening to this day in and out. 'Course with todays cyber headware, the guy could just be playing a game, reading a novel, or watching some porn in his head for all Roland knew.

The elevator finally opened and Roland stepped forth into the restaurant, mentioning to the maitre'd that he was there for the meeting. Roland walked into the back rooms and noted the burly men and women. Security personnel, definitely something big.... oh... joy.... gloves... rubber gloves..... Roland noted as one stepped towards him.

"I already had my checkup for the year", Roland quipped, as he opened his jacket to let them see he was unarmed.

Great, I just had to say that. Now I'll probably get TWO fingers in the inspection...., thought Roland as he noted their expressionless response....

-------------------------------
After the unpleasantries, Roland adjusts his suit back into position, forced a grin and quipped to the security people, "Was it good for you as it was for me?"

Roland walked into the real meeting room.

[Cheesy Answer]

Kadel walks into the meeting room as soon as the security guys outside are satisfied that he's not packing anything dangerous. He looks around the room, gives everyone present a crisp nod, and takes a seat.

[Beast of Revolut...]

Burn was more than a little excited about the meet. Anyone who contacted both Spikehead and Lancer really wanted only the best of the best, and fast. Burn looked nothing like his brother, with his black hair, heavy build, square features, and copius body hair. Mostly though, he looked different because he was a dwarf. Yes, metahumans were still born to human parents these days, though it was slowly becoming less common, as more and more people with latent metagenes started expressing them.

He too was unhappy about going into the space needle unarmed, but at least he had his sustaining foci. Besides, it wasn't as though they were walking into a military battle.

[GreatChicken]

Just outside the closed door of the meeting room, a commotion is heard...

"Unhund me, brutish oaf! Iz zat vay to treat ze old man?!"

"Standard procedure, Mr Gryznik. It won't take long...ey, what's this box...?"

"NIEN! Do NOT press ze..."

*FWAMP*
A bright flash of light emits from under the door jamb, not enough to blind but just enough to let those in the meeting room know that something is amiss. Anyone beyond the door, however...

"GAAAH!"

"MY EYES!!!"

"...button."

"Dammit, old fart! What the hell was that?!"

"Is patented anti-muggink device...vat? To be expectink somevun my age to valk anyvhere defenzeless?"

"Grrr...alright! Alright! You're clear! Now get the <bleep> hell outta here before I change my mind!! Aw, Gawd..."

The door opens, and Theodor steps through. He looks a little roughed up, but otherwise doesn't seem to be affected by the blinding flash. As he gently closes it behind him, he mutters...

"I svear, children zese days is lackink respect..."

He dusts himself off, rearranges his lab coat, and then addresses Spike and Nicole.

"Ah. Herr Spike...Fraulein. Vy wantink to meet at place like zis? Am thinkink would be simpler to meet in coffee house..."

[FXcalibur]

At the head of the rounded table rests a grayed, aging man leaning back in an imposing black leather swivel chair, a serious frown permanently formed on his crusted old face. He wears a loose black overcoat bearing trappings of a multitude of para/military forces; his cufflinks come from the finest of Lone Star’s official blue collar wear, his Kevlar-lined shoulder padding right out of naval uniforms, and his buttons are those of the army general’s formal uniforms. Despite this, the coat is clearly cosmetic and tailor made in design, though it is a splendid piece of work. Underneath the overcoat is a classic Armanté shirt design, but most noticeable is the splendid white beret resting on his ragged brown hair that places most of the aged man’s features in shadow.

Despite this, the man is instantly familiar to anyone with a rudimentary knowledge in politics or the UCAS military, or frag, keeps up to date with the times. The man before you is the venerated General Miguel Colloton, the originally lesser known brother to sister general Angela Colloton, who has recently passed away. Miguel had been a supporter of his sister’s cause for as long as anyone remembers, and he intends to continue it.

Flanking the good general is Nicole and Spikehead. Nic is busy going through several documents laid out in the table before her, whilst Spike is rubbing his sore behind and cursing mildly. Both fixers nod at their respective runners as they filter in.

“Good afternoon.” The general begins. “I am General Johnson, and this meeting never happened. Please, take a seat and enjoy the fine cuisine.” The old man speaks slowly but with a resounding and powerful voice. He has kept up to date with the world and his greeting is more of a show of respect to established runner etiquette than anything else.

“To business.” He booms, sliding a stylish laptop computer onto the table.

“At 0800 hours today, a previously unknown terrorist cell who calls themselves 'Black December', has taken over a new first-class hotel/shopping arcade/business skyscraper in Downtown Seattle, called the Ritz Star…”

The general gestures out the glass windows to a new skyscraper clearly visible from the needle. So new in fact, that scaffolding and construction works of part of the tower can clearly be seen even from this distance.

“They have taken hostages and the fucking bastards have made their demands…” The general places particular emphasis on the now out-of-date swear word, unable to further control his anger. His fist slams down with great force onto the oak table. It takes a while for him to recompose himself.

“…The same tired, ignorant pieces of utter drek that the humanis policlub has been spouting all this while.” He says slowly, gritting his teeth. “Metahuman hate at its’ finest.” He says, dripping with much contempt and sarcasm. “I cannot bear to repeat their sick words.”

“…And…They have an armed tactical nuclear warhead.”

The general sets up his computer and turns it towards the runners. Magnified video footage shot from a surveillance drone shows the nuke in a top-floor chamber of one of spires of Ritz Star. No metahuman targets were seen through the stained glass windows where the nuke was.

“My aides have done well in suppressing the newsnets but it will not last. This problem must be dealt with, the UCAS will not give in to terrorist demands, especially these racist bastards.”

The general takes the time to sit a cup of tea next to him, then continues on.

“How or why these armed terrorists have managed to get such an improbable act done is not known to me, but I while I do not know the root of the problem, I have been given the highest authority to solve it. In eight hours, all of our counter-terrorist forces, including special operatives Delta Five and Seattle BlackSpec Four will assault the compound…”

“The reason I am hiring you is the fact that the megacorporations themselves are getting involved…too involved. As of this moment, the Renraku Reds and God knows how many others are planning their attacks on the Ritz. I am old, gentlemen, and I can tell something is going very wrong. I do not believe the corps do this out of their own will to serve our nation.” He scorns.

“As I loathe to say, Delta and BlackSpec may not be enough. I require thoroughly reliable and trained individuals to go in as two more strikes teams. Should you accept the contract, these are the objectives.”

“Primarily, your task is to enter and secure the building, providing fire support for Delta and BlackSpec when necessary. You are there to save civilian lives, gentlemen. Black December has started murdering their hostages, particularly metahuman ones, in cold blood.” The general once again shakes with anger. “I want you to ensure no more innocent lives are needlessly lost.”

“Secondarily, you are to secure the tactical nuclear weapon in the event that Delta or BlackSpec are unable to do so. Do not let it fall into the hands of any other party, terrorist or corp…though there is hardly a difference between them some days.”

“Thirdly, but most importantly.” The general slows his speech to emphasize the importance of his words. “There is a hostage among them that must survive and be rescued, for reasons to be known to myself alone.” He press a button on the laptop, and a picture of a young Night One boy in a wheelchair pops up, smiling and holding on to a basketball. The kid may be disabled but looks infinitely happy in the picture.

“As for payment.” The general reaches out and places a single ebony credstick on the table before him.

“Two million nuyen.”

“Now then gentlemen, you are free to choose. Should you accept my proposal, you leave and gather in Fort Lewis in eight hours. I will answer any questions you have to the best of my ability.”

[Cheesy Answer]

Kadel raises an quizzical eyebrow at the general's ranking of priorities, and shoots Spikehead a questioning glance.

I would've thought taking the nuke out of the picture would be the primary objective. This kid must be damn important if his survival comes before.

Mentally filing that information away in his mind, Kadel decides to keep silent for the moment and watch to see how the rest of this meeting unravels.

[kevyn668]

Heh. He said "fuck." How quaint...

Kyle lets out a low whistle when the tac nuke is mentioned.

When the General finishes, he nods, "I'm in. But I do have some questions. I'll say them all at once and then we can go back over them. Do you have any intel on the OpsFor's? Numbers? Tactics? Weapons? Capabilities? Also, are the other operators aware that we're going in? Should we expect resistance from the corp squads and if so, how would you like that handled? What's our insertion method? And lastly, what are the contigency and containment plans?"

He looks slowly around the room to see if anyone else shared similar concerns.

This post has been edited by kevyn668: Jul 15 2004, 03:33 PM

[FXcalibur]

Colloton considers Kyle's words, then looks back over his shoulder, waving over a guard covered from head to toe in black seamless form-fitting military armour. The guard shoulders his assault rifle and whispers a few lengthy sentences. A few minutes pass, then the General nods in assent and the soldier steps back into position.

"Reliable tactical data on actual Terrorist numbers is scarce. Most of the building seems to be...how do they say it? Warded? We do have reason to believe there will be a fair number of them within. Judging by their current standing and our data, they seem to have magically active support, and have been spotted carrying ragtag militia weaponry, such as the classic Avtomat Kalashikinov Model 97. Again, tac reports are sketchy at best as is and the terrorists have done little to expose themselves since their initial demands this morning. But as my aide has just reminded me, these men and women infiltrated Seattle and pulled off what I thought impossible. It is obvious they are holding back."

"Delta and BlackSpec Four will be briefed on your assistance. The rest of the armed forces will not. This contract is not affiliated with the military, officially in any case. If the corps' forces open fire on you, you may return fire and deal with them as you see fit. If they do somehow prove to be friendlies...then I don't need to tell you what to do, do I, gentlemen?"

"Insertion will be unorthodox. Our Special Forces have considered the available routes are considering something they call "new" - Aerial Insertion by chopper. Data suggests the Ritz can also be assaulted from the sewer level, but the climb is far too much."

"I cannot rightly provide data on contingency planning, I admit with some disgrace that that is out of my league. I do suppose the old saying of making it up as you go along does apply here. Containment is already underway - The newsnets will be suppressed but again, only for so long. Traffic around the Ritz has been redirected and Lone Star has been busy closing the surrounding area off, last I heard. Evacuation of Seattle is not an option unless we absolutely have no choice in the matter, and hopefully while we still have the ability to make such a choice."

[Shadow]

"So, the objective is to enter the building, disarm the bomb, and rescue one particular hostage. In that order. Have the tango's given any kind of deadline? If not, when can we go in?"

[FXcalibur]

"You are to ensure safety of as as many hostages as possible, though the one I mentioned is the most important. I have already stated that you gather in Fort Lewis in eight hours. If the assault goes well, we would not have to worry about any deadline set by the terrorists, although currently they've given us a day to take action."

[Cheesy Answer]

With a hint of a smile on his face, Kadel asks, "And what action exactly are they demanding that you take?"

[PBTHHHHT]

Roland speaks up.

"Sir, what equipment will be provided and what should we provide ourselves? Such as specialized ammunition or gadgets that we might not have on hand. Would it be better for standardization of gear similar to what Delta and Blackspec might carry in case they might need our equipment or ammunition? Additionally, will you provide the communications gear for us?

Also, I have almost no experience concerning the magical side of things, but a ward for the entire building of that size.... that means major magical assets on the side of the opposition?"

[Panzergeist]

Slash didn't need much time to think about this. He knows a few people who live near the building in question. "Well, it doesn't sound like we have a lot of choice, if we want to keep living in Seattle. A nuke is everyone's problem. If it goes off, the government will do everything it can to prevent something similar from happening again, restricting civil liberties to much as to destroy the shadowbiz in this town. Not to mention I have a couple friends in that district."

On the plus side, his parents lived only two block away from the tower. At least if the nuke goes off, they won't be around to embezzle the disaster relief funds. He had no doubt that they would do so if given the chance.

[Fu-Man Chu]

The text message waiting on his pager when he returned to his body was a bit of a surprise to the troll. Having spent much of the morning flying through the Astral space, he realized that he only had an hour to make it to the needle for what sounded like a very intriguing job. After all, it wasn't often that the League called upon their short-list for a same day meeting. Quickly gathering his gear - and putting on his "best jacket" for the occassion, Reaper heads out for Downtown.

Its been a while he thinks to himself as he heads for the once familiar elevator. "G'evenin' chummer, I gots uh res'vation at tha top," is his reply to the guard's query. "Names' Joe Black," Reaper continues as the guard's face shows his doubt. Finding him listed as belonging to one of the private parties doesn't lift the man's suspicions even as he waves him onward.

The ride up to top of the Needle was quick and silent, giving the troll time to adjust the slightly worn ghetto-dressy leather jacket. The interior kevlar lining slid smoothly across his dark blue turtleneck, I hope this is formal enough for them, 'cuz this is as good as its going to get.

The maitre'd's looks in resonse to his query was so similar to that of the guards that the Reaper had to bit his tongue before quipping something about the two being telepathic twins. However, he spared not the curtesy when the rubber gloved men approached him for their inspection; "Yer gonna need gloves tha' go up to yer shoulders ta search a troll, chummer," said with a smile.

Eventually, having run the guantlet of formalities, Reaper was able to enter into the conference with a single minute to spare. Glancing around the room, he threw Nic a smile and a wink of thanks for the invitation to the party.

[TinkerGnome]

Axe thinks it over for a while. He manages to bite down the obvious question at the mention of the payment and instead just guestures with the body of the guitar he holds casually in one hand like a baton. "I'm in," he says, and leaves the planning to leveler heads than his own. Instead he reclines in his chair and fiddles with the guitar, though it makes no noise as he does so.

[Fu-Man Chu]

Reaper listens carefully as General Johnson begins to give the assembled runners information on the job ahead of them - especially as he mentions this so-called Black December's ideology. Reaper was no stranger to the humanis policlub - having been the target of several of their attempts to collect a trophy the size of a troll child's head. He could barely restrain a snarl from forming on his lips at their mention. Business, keep your big head on the biz - for all you think you know, that could just be their cover.

When the general finishes his own briefing, many questions and lines of thought were already sorting themelves out in the Reaper's mind.

"General, wha' da we alredy know 'bout dis Black December group - dey give any in'ication at wha' point dey'd use tha' nuke? It wouldn't be fun ta get blown ta shreds jus' fer landing on da roof - if so, it'd be uh lot more co-vert insershun."