It was the oddest of places for a meet, but when was a meet completely square at all, eh Chummers? Even so, of all the places to be called to by a Johnson, an all night driving range? Hell, the location's no more odd than the contact. It's not every day you're asked to an all night driving range through an anonymous drop in your e-mail. No, not that public messagebox you leave open on the 'trix for spammers just so you can hold a legitimate claim to having service; this was in your private box, the one only you and your fixers know. Your working box. So either someone's been in contact with one of your contacts, or they've been doing a little illicit legwork. Intriguing either way.

The 19th Hole, bar with a cliche golf name, but boasting an actual multi-story driving range. That's right folks, one of those deals where they pack flat upon flat of people in funny pants and hats in to take a whack at a small white ball with a metal club. Hell, it's a lost art in this day and age. Cybernetics, magic, that whole UGE thing; not exactly nice to a pure sport. I mean, pretty much every course on the planet became outmoded when guys came along that could make a Par 5 in and easy two. Nonetheless, there were some purists out there, some hobbyists, and some good old boys who clung to the sport. Thus the existance of The 19th Hole.

The bar itself is typical. Underneath it's vaneir of course side pro shop culture, the place was just like any other sprawl dive, right down to the reglars leaning drunkenly on the bar. The tender notices you of course, new people don't come by here much on their own.

`Second level, you can't miss him.` You get the feeling he's told someone this before, and will be telling someone else soon.

The driving ranges are in the back, just past the nastiest toilets in Tacoma, through a beaded curtain. There's only one flood light on in the big exapnse. The size of a warehouse it is, just a large lot with a tall fence on one end. Hell, seems to be a waste of space in a sprawl like this. What people won't do for their sport. Just when you think the place is empty, there's a sound like a shotgun blast, and a ball rockets from off of the second deck, easily clearing the 100, the 200, the 300 yard line. The ball actually rips right to the fence, and the 400 yard mark, and slams right into one of the holes. Someone's got a wicked swing. The stairs are precarious, but when you get to the top, there at the end of the second deck is a rather large trog, driver in hand, bent over the tee applying a ball gingerly. The troll's got the most heinous plaid pants on, and an honest to Ghost sweater vest. When you approach, he stands and looks up, nodding, and gesturing to a bench; you're early, or so it seems.

Cougar nods, deciding to play it cool for now. He takes a seat and eyes his surroundings, his cybereyes scanning through all its options to pick up any details. He leans back, looking relaxed, but ready to spring into action, and watches the Troll do his thing...

Ghost Dragon is surprised by the anonymous message in his inbox. He had decided to check his mail after just getting in and sleeping off some jetlag from yet another bad run on some remote island in the pacific.

Ghost Dragon quickly showers, dries and burshes his hair, and puts on his usual gear for the downtown environment. He dons his form-fitting body armor shirt, some nice slack by Zoe Futura, a fine Hi-collar shirt by Vashon Island, and then he finds his Mortimer of London Ulysses Line and lays it across a chair, next to the new weapon cabinet he purchased earlier in the week. It was actually an innocent-looking armoire that blended nicely with his other furniture around the area he had made the bedroom in the studio flat that he rents. No one would ever guess that it had anything but clothes in it without opening it or giving it a MADS scan.

Putting on his quickdraw concealable holsters, Ghost Dragon finds his guns. He slides a clip of hollow points in, chambers a round, and puts his Browning Ultra-Power in its rightful place under his left armpit. He slides a clip of regular ammo in, but doesn't chamber it, and puts his shiny new Aggressor-C into a concealable holster in the small of his back to hide it from casual view as his coat shifts while he walks, smiling at it at the thought of testing it out at some point in the very near future. He had acquired it just over a week ago, but had decided not to take it with him to the tropical island, for fear of it being lost in the mud somewhere.

Ghost Dragon puts on his Ulysses Line coat and slides an extra clip of hollow points for the Browning UP into an inner pocket on the left, next to it. He slides two extra clips of regular ammo into another pocket for his new gun. Grabbing his cellphone, pager, credstick, flashlight, bike keys, and binoculars, and putting them into his pockets, he is all ready to go in just under an hour. Ghost Dragon grabs his Hardliner Gloves, to give that little bit of extra punch to his outfit, along with his nice sunglasses, and heads for the door. He engages the maglocks on all of the windows and doors of his flat with the swipe of a card and a palm scan.

He waves goodbye to Richard and Dave, the building security guards in the lobby, and says, "I will return later. I am taking another trip. See you soon."

"OK. Have fun," Dave says, as he stands up, finishing the last of his coffee and taking a closer look at one of the monitors on his side of the desk.

Ghost Dragon walks out to the parking lot and climbs onto his Harley-Davidson Electroglide and puts on his sunglasses. He starts it up and speeds out of the parking lot, on his way to the 19th Hole.

He doesn't have any trouble getting in. He follows the bartender's directions.

'It seems that I am expected. That e-mail message was legitimate.', he thinks to himself.

No one questions Ghost Dragon as he walks upstairs, probably because of his nice clothing and direct manner. He calmly and carefully climbs the stairs. Ghost Dragon returns the troll's nod and takes a seat on the bench that the troll directed him to and waits for further instructions.

'Presumably, there are others who have yet to arrive. I wonder what it is this time...', he thinks to himself.

Ghost Dragon takes the oppotunity to study the troll and his surroundings in detail using astral perception. With but a blink, the world suddenly takes on a new level of reality as he looks around.

An annonymous message wasn't anything new to Doc. His livelyhood all too often depending on them, though this wasn't the normal kind. This time, it looked like a meet for a run, but he packed up his medkit anyway and made his way across town. A valid SIN would do a lot for you, but anyone with the cred could ride the tube, and that's the way he did it.

The ride over was at once hectic and boring. Punks with violence in mind were relatively rare on the tube because of security and a general lack of people with enough money to bother robbing.

Finally, he straightened the collar on his long coat, giving a shifting revelation of the finely tailored clothing beneath. He certainly looked ready for a meet, and breezed into the driving range.

Physically, Doc wasn't imposing. He stood about 4'11", rather tall for a dwarf, and difficult to spot as such. His black hair was cut short and neat, and his clothing was certainly nicer than what most people could aford.

He took a seat on the offered bench, noticing the others nearby. His astral peepers scanned the room as well as his more normal eyes, trying his best to determine what was going on.

Halo takes a seat and quickly becomes bored, despite the hilarious troll standing in front of him. Feeling the bite of the cold air, he pulls his coat a bit tighter.

After a few more long drives, and a moment or two silently looking over the gathered persons, the plaid clad Troll nods, to whom is up in the air. Another ponderous moment and he sets his club against the small section of fencing that seperates drivers, then he moves over to the stereo equipment rigged up in the corner. He leans down, and presses a single button, then moves on back to retrieve his club.

`Greetings to those of you who have gathered here today, I appologize for the location. Sedrick does love his golf. My name is Charlie, and I have a proposition for you.`

It's starting to sound like this is a recording, and a weird one at that. Proposition? Like you're some kind of streetwalker. Then again, what other term would you use? Whatever consideration you may have that it's a recording, however, is silenced as the voice tries to continue, but pauses when the sound of club face impacting with ball cuts in.

`Do you follow the screamsheets? Not the somewhat respectable ones... the more, out there ones? There is a tabloid called the Seattle Sentinal which has been running a story lately which you may find rather amusing. It seems the Sentinal has their own Superhero, they call him Captain UCAS. A cliche name, don't you agree? Before you dismiss it as fluff, I asure you this so called hero exists. However, he's just a vigilante; if a slippery one.`

Another pause, as the Troll drives a ball into the same square one before it was wedged in, popping the first one through.

`I wish you to track this Captain UCAS down for me, bring him to a place where I can converse with him. Simple, right? Of course nothing is so simple. I will, however, offer the proper renumeration. How does the tune of twenty thousand sound? Expenses also of course.`

Sedrick takes another whack at a new ball, and then turns to regard the runners, leaning on the club.

Doc does a little mental math. "Is that each?" he wonders softly. Five grand for an investigation wasn't bad money, though, so he decided it would probably be worth it either way. "If the screamsheets haven't tracked him down, how are we going to? I've met a few of those reporters, and they're as bloodthirsty as they come when tracking down a story..."

Cougar grunts. "I haven't heard anything about this guy. Whats his deal?"

`That is a sum for each participant. There may be more joining you along the way.`

Good pickup on the microphone. Or perhaps microphones. Sedrick fishes something out of his pocket, and checks it a moment, before handing it over to Doc, as he's the closest to him. It's a hardcopy of a screemsheet scan. The cover picture is a little grainy, as if caught while the sheet's title story was changing. The figure pictured is in mid motion; the motion of throwing a man with a pocket secretary clutched under his arm into a storefront window. You couldn't get a better scene if it was staged. Even with the low quality though, a few things are obvious. This guy is huge, but totally human looking. He's epic in the sense like he was a Greek statue. True to what he's been named, he's got the UCAS flag draped over his muscular shoulders. His vace isn't visible though, just a shock of blonde hair.

`As for his existance; I believe this should help disuade some doubt. I apologize for the quality. Last minute work.`

Something about that, of course, doesn't sit right. The guy tracked your contact info down, and he had to rush job a picture scan?

`Tracking the man down has proven a bit tough. He seems to have a talent for disapearing after his displays of vigilantism. Add to that the possibility he could be unstable, and dangerous... well, you can see why I've called you.`

Ghost Dragon speaks up, not taking his sunglasses off, since he can't see to whom he is speaking.

"With respect, Mister Charlie, I usually command a higher fee for my work. While a simple run involving tracking down someone is well-financed at twenty thousand, the unique... circumstances which surround this job require me to ask for a bit more, say... thirty thousand. That is my usual minimum. If that is not agreeable, then perhaps there is the opportunity for a bonus?"

Cougar waits for the reply, knowing full well that any bonus will effect the group, not a singled out individual.