Another shitty night again spent at home. You don't know why you do this. I mean, hell, you're a shadowrunner. A gun for hire, a free spirit, a man who makes his own rules. You try to justify it with a sort of outlaw's elitism, a "I'm so far below it I'm above it" attitude, but it just doesn't work. You wanna get out, and you're not doing it, and it's eating you up.

Turns out it's your good luck that's keeping you in. You each get a call, conference judging from your various AR icons. The caller ID is Mr. Johnson.

He hated sunset in Seattle!

The prevailing tones of rust and baby-shit yellow that highlighted, and occasionally even broke through the gray, waterlogged clouds had always stuck the elf as a good analogy of how the city's aura might appear, covered with blood and stained with puke.

With a sigh, Alistair O'Shea turns away from the view from his small but quite luxurious Bellevue loft, partially relieved to see the last traces of the ugly sunset fade into evening, but also now at a loss, the boredom of another idle night once again settling heavily on his thin shoulders.

His gaze strays to the small oak cocktail bar set near the window, and a fine crystal decanter rises on its own to pour almost two fingers' width of amber liquid into an equally delicate tumbler before returning to rest. The glass itself then rises and floats gently but surely over to meet the elf's now-outstretched hand.

Alistair sips at the drink absently, his mind already churning in the hope of finding a new distraction. The thought of facing his nearly due essay on the benefits and handicaps of simultaneously casting multiple spells didn't entice him, and he wasn't exactly chomping at the bit to spend another frustrating night poring through Shakespeare's inane portrayal of fairies in A Midsummer Night's Dream for Lit class.

With another, deeper sigh, the elf's lavender eyes once again drift toward the window. All evidence of the setting sun having vanished, the view now depicts a dark canvas chaotically splashed liberally with multicolored neon, the individual images overlapping so much as be indistinguishable in all but hue. A tiny smile touches his lips as he surveys the nightscape, another aural analogy flitting across his mind about life shining vibrantly even in the worst of places.

Shaking his head at the strya benevolent thought, Alistair drains the last of the amber liquid from the tumbler just as his Comm indicates an incoming call. Another absent glance sends the empty glass floating back to its place as the elf, intrigued by the ID, activates his end of the conference.

Waking up with a bitter taste in ones mouth is never a good way to begin a new day. Jean-Pierre has learned it by doing exactly that too often. This time, the slim elf had a serious headache too. ""T'es con!" he curses himself, while looking for a painkiller. He opens his eyes and sees the fading sunset. 'How late is it?' He looks around, realizing after some seconds that he is in his apartment at Tacoma. And he's not alone.
"T'es con, Jean-Pierre!" he insults himself again. He stands up, trying to leave the bed without awaking the woman who's lying in there. The tall human woman doesn't wake up, allowing JP to go into the bathroom.

After he has taken a shower, he curses himself two more times for being so stupid to take another woman to one of his homes (at least he never ended up with a woman in the safehouse he shares with Immortal...), he steps out of the small, dirty bathroom. The woman is still asleep. 'If she drank as much as I did last night, it's no wonder.' The elf steps into the small kitchen, but a quick look into the fridge only reveals its emptiness. Time for a walk, it seems. But before leaving the house, he has to get rid of the woman.

And now his commlink indicates an incoming call. 'Mr. J.' With a sigh JP grabs a bottle of water, sits on the only chair in the kitchen and activates his comm.

One of these days...

You'd think that the last place anyone would want to live would be in the middle of a syndicate war. Right in docklands, three blocks from Vory shipping warehouses and a block from Triad vice houses. And you'd especially think that the last place anyone who had to live in a place like that would want to sleep at night would be in a mobile home on cement blocks. But that exactly where Immortal rests his head a night. The safehouse he shares with JP, where his van is parked, is only a short distance away, but he prefers some level of privacy, and in a place where the streets virtually go dead a night there's plenty of it to be found.

The call finds him sitting on an upturned crate in front of the mobile home, faint music playing in the background. He's got a cigar clenched between his teeth and his Hamerelli field stripped on another crate in front of him. When the call comes he reaches back to pick up his commlink, and sets it on one of his knees, continuing to clean the pistol's slide as he accepts.

You see a rather haggard-looking individual; his hair is blond going on prematurely white, and if you look hard enough, you can see the very beginnings of lines, even though it wouldn't show up on any facial recognition software. Middle age at at 25. He is not your usual client; he's not even trying to look like your usual client.

"Hi. Your fixer told me to call you, and he told me how to hack my comlink so that it showed up 'Mr. Johnson.' I'm really sorry to be bothering you, but I really, really need something done.

"You see, I really need to get out. I haven't seen my friends since college, and they're from different companies. I'd get fired if I was seen talking to them; they'd assume I was giving away company secrets, even though I don't do much of anything, and even if they didn't, they'd get mad about my consorting with the enemy. Shiawase's like that.

"So can you do it? Security isn't that tight."

As he watches this latest Mr. Johnson plead his case on the life-sized wall screen, Alistair drapes himself across a recliner, his ankle length silken robe smoothly flowing like an emerald waterfall over the fine black leather.

Of course, this display is lost to the other participants of the conference call. All they can see is the sorcerer's online icon, an elf rendered in brilliant neon detail standing almost motionless, his long black hair and silver-trimmed lavender robe swept by an unseen breeze.

Both mage and icon continue to maintain their separate silences even after the haggard man finishes speaking, the online elf's gaze seeming to intensify ever so slightly as it stares back expectantly through the electronic connection at the prospective client.

"It'll pay 15,000 each. I've been saving up for a while. And I was wondering if you could provide an escort until we go back to our corps."

Jean-Pierre views the image of the young man who tries to hire them. Using the standard icon his commlink provides, he nips on his water. 15,000 is a lof of money. Money he needs. All for escorting a coward to his friends. He had done bloodiers jobs for less money. Merde, he's already nodding! 'T'es con, Jean-Pierre!' he insults himself. Time to get the ball rolling.

"Putain! I'm interested."

The elf takes a deep breath, nips on his water again and looks for his french cigarettes. He sighs and leaves the small kitchen, knowing that the cigarettes at his living room. He finds them on his couch, close to two empty bottles of french wine. "Merde!" 'The woman!' - JP looks to his bedroom: the door is wide open, but the woman is still asleep. Cursing again, he sits on the couch and smokes the first cigarette of the day, waiting for a reply of the other runners.

Fifteen hundred for corporate babysitting. It sounded good, but he was already spinning scenarios. Asuming five guys - as any good night on the town would require a pack - and five different corporations, that meant four other sets of minders. That also meant five potential extraction targets as well. And depending on the place they're planning on meeting at, and the neighborhood, it would mean five fish out of water to cause trouble. Point in case their would be Johnson has already tipped them as to whom he worked for.

The scar over his left brow begins to itch. It always does when he's about to do something stupid.

`What about expenses?`

His icon gives away nothing. He hadn't bothered upgrading it's standard emotional overlays.

Alistair absently runs his fingers through his short black hair as he listens to the responses from the others. Payment was only one factor in determining whether or not he would take the job. Shaking his head, the elf reluctantly speaks for the first time since the conference call began, his clear tone and crisp enunciation ample evidence of an extended education.

"Mr. Johnson ..." Alistair lets the monicker hang in the silence for a moment before continuing. "Money aside, you are definitely going to need to provide a few more details before we can possibly agree to assist you in this endeavor."

"I'm meeting up with my friends for a night on the town. I need you to make it look like I was unwillingly extracted; spent tranquilizer darts and shock bullet casings, etc. so I can go back to my job. And I've made it clear to my friends the guys I hired would be providing security."

`If you're going to want us to fake an extraction that'll cost more, son.` He begins to re-assemble the Hamerelli as he talks, only half paying attention to the icons around his vision.

`You'll be paying more because the risk ramps up for something like that. We'll be leaving evidence behind, which means something for your corpsec boys to be tracking us with, and when you get back they'll be interrogating you. And don't think it'll be anything short of interrogation. Still, I'm inclined to lend myself to this. I just need to know where you're planning on going, and who all is going to be meeting you there.`

He's already got ways to make it look like an extraction without having to leave anything behind, but he's not about to say as much.

<<Sorry to hold things up, I'll fill this space with a short intro later today>>

****************************

Recoil had listened silently while the others talked, "I'm in, but I'd like a few more details."

"What's the timeline? It would look more convincing, and probably help you in the long run if we extracted you 'for real' and then gave you a few hours to recover before you meet you pals."

"Do you know of any special security measures in use, RFID tags, ritual links, things like that to track you down? How about your physical location, how high is the security at your residence?"

"Also, you realise we may have to kill some corp sec guys pulling this off?"

"Oh, I'm not too fond of them. And somebody else is paying for this... okay, maybe I shouldn't have said that." He looks flustered, but no more than before, as far as you can tell. He always looks flustered.

"And I don't have any implanted RFID tags. I'm not important enough. And no ritual links.

"It'll be pretty easy."

The elf rolls his lavender eyes at the client's last words, but at the same time he rearranges himself in the leather chair, sitting up straighter and even leaning forward a touch, his posture more indicative of his interest than the tone of his response.

"So you've said!" Once again Alistair pauses slightly, ensuring the client's full attention before continuing. "Exactly what kind of time-frame are we talking about?"

"I'd like you to extract me tomorrow by 8:00 p.m. I'm told it'll be a long night, and the guys want an early start."

Alarm bells are firing off in Immortal's mind, but once more his simple off the shelf icon shows nothing. He takes a drag off of his cigar and fires a private message to JP.

Something doesn't smell right here, but I'm inclined to give it a go. You in?

He doesn't agree outright, not without knowing if JP is involved.

`You understand we'll need a guest list. Can't have anyone showing up by suprise. But an extraction can be aranged, even on such short notice. We'll need to know some security details as well about your housing situation. And frankly for a job like this Mr. Johnson's not going to cut it. Got a name kid?`

Overwhelm and mine for information. He's going to accept one way or another, but he's going to sweat their would be employer first. All the while, though, he's wondering just who is funding this little night out.

JP receives Immortals private message at the same moment when he wants to send one to his chummer too.

I'm sure it won't be as easy as Mr. J. says, but it's paid good. We two are able to make it run smoothly - and I'm sure the other runners are in our league, so yeah, I'm in. We have to keep our eyes open, but I don't have to tell you this.

After sending the message to Immortal, the elf sits back and takes a deep breath, inhaling the last smoke of the cigarette. Knowing that his old trusted chummer will be on his side is a comforting thought.

"Being under pressure, time-wise, is never good and should be compensateted by some extra cred, mon ami."

Alistair slumps back in the chair as the client reveals the time-frame requirements, his windswept elven icon's resolution wavering slightly for a moment before quickly restabilizing. With a glance and a slight flick of the wrist, the mage repeats the earlier trick with the crystal decanter, immediately scowling in irritation at his unconscious use of the totally unnecessary gesture.

'Of course it had to be All Hallow's Eve! The night of Spirits! The one night of the year I wouldn't at all mind sitting here behind these nice safe Wards.'

He shakes his head, trying to put that whole train of thought aside, but his eyes never leave the half-full tumbler as it floats across the room.

'There is not one single thing that this Johnson has said so far that has rung true, so why am I so intrigued?'

Glass in hand, the elf once again slumps back in the comfortable black recliner, relieved to note that the others seemed to have unintentionally covered his lapse with useful questions and comments. Content to wait and observe the client's response, Alistair sips the amber liqueur slowly as he once again turns his full attention to the screen covering half the wall.

He doesn't look as if he's mad about losing money, he looks more... guilty. Unless he's a very good actor, he's not lying about costing somebody else money, somebody he cares about.

"Look, I'll wire you the layout I made. It'll be really, really easy.

"And as for people coming, there's Yoshi, he works research for MCT's magical division. He's really initiationed, or something, whatever you call it. All I know is he's really powerful.

"Roger's a really good programmer, working for Ares.

"Then there's Sandra, she's a Wuxing banker. She's footing the bill."

A window opens in each of your displays containing three pictures. Yoshi's very young and very virile, like a hero from one of the more realistically drawn manga in circulation. Roger looks like a programmer, but one that you'd expect to shake the world with a paradigm shift. Average spectacles along with that look of vision, of human evolution in action. Sandra is gorgeous and cold; you can not imagine her having trouble moving up the ladder.

You have no idea how Mr. Johnson made friends with them in college.

JP looks at the pictures of Mr. J. three friends. 'The average corp drones.'

He looks to the woman in his bedroom again. She's still asleep, what makes the elf feel more comfortable.


"He, mon ami, what's with the higher pay due to the tight timetable?"

"Oh, right. Does 25,000 sound good?"

'That was too easy.'

JP feels the pain in his guts in the moment, when Mr. J. increase their pay by 10,000 without the slightest attempt to negotiate about it. The last time JP had that feeling was three years ago, during a rainy night in Vancouver. It proved right, the run went bad and JP barely managed to get out of town without getting captured.

He sends another private message to Immortal: Chummer, we need to be really careful, sans de'conner.

Immortal's response comes in short order, his icon shifting slighty at the increase in pay. You're telling a guy who activly hunts Bugs to be careful. The pay's good enough we might want to consider the risk.

`I'll expect half up front.`

He was already spinning extraction details, wondering if he could convince the Searge to turn a blind eye to a guy walking away with a vehicle from motorpool. He regains focus on the moment, though, and re-assembles the Hamerelli. All the while he awaits word from their employer by proxy.

The dramatic increase in the proffered fee does nothing to alleviate Alistair's suspicions about the Johnson, and the job itself. He sips his drink slowly as he listens to the others, pondering just what the client isn't telling them.

"There are two more things you need to tell us before we can possibly accept your offer. First, exactly what Corporation do you work for? And secondly, the proposed extraction location itself."

The elf takes another small sip from the crystal tumbler before continuing.

"Of course, a full itinerary of the evening's events would be nice as well."

"I work for Shiawase. I... I hate it here.

"And I work for a minor bureau... The Business Recorporation Bureau. I don't know what recorporation is. You can find it here." A window opens up on your various comlinks and terminals.

"First, we're going to a concert by the visiting Berlin Philharmonic. The conductor's chipping Herbert Von Karajan. That's at 9. At 10:30, we're going to watch Yoshi have street duels with other magicians in the Barrens. At around 11:30, we're going to a strip club called Inner Heaven. Sandra thinks it's funny how easily manipulated men are, so she'll just watch and maybe laugh. After that, it's a high-class pub crawl, topping it off with a few hours on the ninth circle of Dante's Inferno.

"It'll probably be my only chance to ever see it."

Recoil eyes open wide as the Johnson describes the itinerary for the night, he lights a fresh Cuban cigar as he subvocalises a reply.

"Woa, you sure want to take in the whole city."

"You know Halloween probably isn't the best time to take in the Barrens, not that any time really is."

'Damn it, what's this kid getting us into?'

"Do you have a suggestion when we should pick you and your friends up, mec? I would suggest doing the hit in the Barrens, all else would be parachuter un senegalais."

Being still surprised that Mr. Johnson accepted his demand for a higher pay, JP leans back and smokes another cigarette. The woman is still sleeping. 'Maybe la grogniasse is drunk enough to sleep till midday.'

He sends another message to Immortal: Chummer, where are you? Can you pick me up when we have a time and place for a meeting with the others? I'm in my Tacoma flat right now.

Immortal's icon bristles slightly at the itenery. The places they're going, he might just need to get something decent to wear. Then again he's supposed to look like muscle, so it might not be so bad. I'm at my place, gonna grab my van I'll start driving over. The benefits of a modern world. Your calls go where you are.

`Busy night planned.` The street duels were something to raise a brow. All sorts of mojo being tossed around, things tend to happen. `I'll have to confer with the others, but we may need to extract you a little early. Can you provide us an idea of your usual daily routine, some of your usual haunts perhaps. We'll also need your address and that of your office.`

He was thinking a noontime extraction. Take the guy during lunch. Daylight was bolder, and thus less obvious. It'd be even better if the guy didn't eat at his desk. Either way, plans could be modified.

Even as he asks Immortal stands and holsters the Hammerelli. He heads inside of the trailer, proceeding to do a little packing. The places they're going he's going to need some variety when it comes to weapons, that's for sure.

Alistair absently swishes the last of the amber nectar around the bottom of the tumbler as he waits for the Johnson to respond.

"I have a room reserved at the Seattle Hilton under the name John Wilson. It has a suit and tickets to the concert, enough for all five of us. We'll meet the others at the concert."

The elven sorcerer drains the tumbler.

"Sounds like you have quite the interesting evening planned, and while I can't speak for my distinguished colleagues, I must say that you definitely have my interest. Now, as to financial terms ..."

"25,000 is a lot, I think."

`Twenty-five kay is plenty, but I'll be wanting half up front. Expect account information when this here meet is winding up.`He's all but sealed the deal now, just one more thing he wants to work out. `If we're going to make this look like an extraction, then I don't want to be meeting you at a hotel room. We can take you there, but we need you on scene for anything we're going to do. Other than that, I'm in.`

After some consideration he packs a robust selection of weapons, figuring he can leave the kitbag in whatever vehicle they'll be taking. Into the bag he places his Yamaha Saku Fubuki, Defiance EX Shocker, and Ingram Smartgun X. He places a few clips of ammunition for each into the bag as well, and a slew of silencers and sound supressors. After a moment's thought he adds in a smoke grenade and flash pack. No use going in naked, after all.

While he waits for the response, Immortal slips on the concealable holsters for his Predator and for the Streetline Special. He slips throwing knives into their various hiding spots, and slips on his shock gloves. He goes to the lined coat hanging by the door and checks that his white noise generator is there, and then slips the coat on. He hefts the duffel bag over his shoulder and without a second thought takes his Ares Alpha out of its rack on the wall. Sure, he won't be carrying it everywhere, but there's no use being without it.

He wires over the layout to the complex.

"I wake up at exactly 7:00 a.m., eat breakfast, and then walk over to the complex at around 7:30. I'm at my desk by 7:40 and I stay there until 12:00, at which point I eat at the company cafeteria. I'm back at my desk at 1:00, and I'm there until 5:30, at which point I eat out because it's Friday. I eat at a Japanese company restaurant that's outside the complex called "Sushi Hanryu." I do it every Friday because I constantly entertain fantasies of extraction."

Alistair rolls his eyes at the client's protest, but before he has the chance to clarify his statement, one of his contemporaries does exactly that.

Content to sit back and listen, letting the others do the bulk of the talking, the elf idly ponders the logistics of the first phase of the job. Deep in the back of his mind though, lies the strange thought that the extraction just might prove to be the easiest part of the whole operation.

"I'm in, too."

JP leans back and smokes the last cigarette of the pack. 'Time to get new ones.' He goes over to his bedroom and awakens the sleeping woman. "Hey, salope, time to get up! We'll leave in a minute!"

Sushi. He hasn't had a good sashimi in some time, and thankfully no one had ever had the nerve to try and make a soy version of it. Immortal's persona nods, the first true motion of emotion of any kind it's made.

`Alright Mr. J, we seem to have ourselves a posse and you're fixing to have a night on the town. I suggest you stick to routine for tommorrow. We'll confer, make up a plan. It's best you not be in on it, so you don't go looking all giddy in front of your fellow stiffs.`

The implication should be there well enough, he plans on holding a virtual congress shortly after the meet. He's on the road already, walking the docks with an assault rifle in hand. Any place else he'd be nuts, but he's got agreements here, anyone fool enough to mess with him deserves what happens.

`As for the advance, my account information is being wired to you as I speak.` He's not about to budge on that part. Something's going to go pear shaped on this one, he can feel it on every one of his formerly broken bones, and he's not about to walk into trouble without a fat padding to his account first.

While the others confer, and the various data transfers take place, the dark-haired elf rises, stretching the tension from his lean frame, the emerald silk of his robe falling away to his shoulders, exposing his thin, bony white arms. His pale lavender eyes idly take in the fine familiar surroundings of his high-class Bellevue home.

In reality, it was laid out in a loft-style, with everything but a small bathroom and an even smaller kitchen all combined in one, albeit quite large, main area. It was expensive enough, but the 27th floor apartment was perfect for Alistair's needs. He lets his gaze roam across the shelves of books and disks, their topics varying widely from law to fashion, politics to the classics, and of course, all aspects of magic. He scans the finely crafted furnishings, beautiful pastel velvets and black leathers and real mahogany fixtures. The mage's eyes keep wandering, past the full-length window, now offering a breath-taking view of Downtown's neon nightscape across an almost entirely blacked-out Council Island, until they finally settle once again on the life-sized image of Mr. Johnson on the wall screen.

"Is there anything else you'd like to tell us now, while you still have the chance?"

"Ummm.... I guess not...

"Well, there is one thing. There's a patrolling elemental, but it probably won't be a problem for you. I heard the mage telling some clients one day something about it being 'rating 10' or something."

One corner of the elven spellcaster's eyebrow twitches in interest, but this quick change in expression is not reflected in his windswept neon icon, and Alistair's voice remains calm and steady as he responds.

"That's why we get the nova nuyen. But, that's just the kind of detail you need to be telling us about. Are you sure there are no other little pieces of information you can think of to share, Mr. Johnson?"

"Nothing really. I'm not really sure the mage was telling the truth; that kind of security costs money, and they tend to cut corners on things around here."

Immortal grunts at the mention of the elemental, and his persona can be heard to mutter.

`There's always spirits involved, aren't there now...`

Not that he's got anything against the Awakened, or spirits in general. He's just sick of being the whipping boy of every spirit that comes about.

JP packs his gear into a black backpack and awakens the woman. "You have two minutes to dress and leave!"

He sends another private message to Immortal: Ok mon ami, I'm ready to get picked up. I'll wait at the next Stuffer Shack. Have to get new cigarettes. He submits the adress of the next store to Immortal and grabs his stuff, ready to leave the small, dirty apartment when the woman is ready.

"Well then, that seems to be about all. I highly doubt that you will have any further contact with any of us prior to the actual operation. Goodbye and good luck until tomorrow, Mr. Johnson."

Alistair stands by the window, absently staring at Downtown's vibrant neon skyline as he waits for the client to drop out of the conference call.

Mr. Johnson makes a weak attempt at a smile, looks down, and dials out.

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Grinder

The woman lets out an enchanting, musical laugh. She gets up, strides confidently to her synthleather pants and top and begins to dress herself.

You wish she wouldn't, and that excites you even more. She pulls her fake-mystical pentagram amulet from under her top, waves goodbye with her fingers, never her whole hand, and leaves.

Her slapdash style isn't displeasing; it gives you visions the endless diversity of city life, of a lazily vibrant nightlife, rather than the terminal squalor of the drug addict.

JP sends another message to Immortal: Mon ami, I'll need a good drink too.

To the rest (and Immortal too) he sends a request for a meeting. Mon amis, when and where should we meet?

The dark haired elf doesn't turn from the vista provided by the floor-to-ceiling window. Unlike the earlier sunset, Alistair really appreciated the neon cityscape after the sun finally stopped staining the scene red.

"Before we start, might I suggest somewhere a little less cliche than the proverbial 'runner bar'? There's a Starbucks up in Everett on Colby Avenue that's a nice, discrete place for a meet."

People piss and moan about the inexhorable march of progress, the encroachment of technology and convenience upon "tradition" and "values," but really, the city looks much better at night. When the sun's up, it always feels as if the city's vitality is suppressed somehow, that it's struggling against the disapproval of nature made manifest. But when that glowing ball of hate goes down and the lights turn on, that's when it comes alive, when the teeming, churning life of the place bleeds out into the street.

Immortal scowls to himself at the suggestion, but he doesn't let it project over AR. Starbucks? I could use a bit of real coffee I guess, get the neurons firing. I should be able to be there in thirty mikes, traffic and go-gangers not withstanding.

He still wasn't too keen on the whole deal, but money is money, and he'd been planning a bit of a trip; a little blood mage hunting vacation inside of Azzie turf. He could use all the scratch he could get, and if it meant playing babysitter to a pack of suit, well he'd grin and bear it.