White Orchid Marina

Dancing lights upon the still water made their way up to Valentine's eyes, but he hardly payed any attention. A distant gaze pierced the window as his mind probed the matrix. Most of what he was coming upon seemed of little importance.

Then it hit him, or in front of him actually. A cartoon-style plunger-tipped arrow icon appeared revealing a message.

The Viscious Vole seeks aide. Determined as a compatable runner, your services are desired. If interested, go to the Valdez Intramural League Host under the Seattle Public Access Grid. Proceed to the "Vole Team Roster" file and access it with passcode 1337-5347.[/I
--Wango (11:29:49/08-17/56)



[I]Soycaf Express

SLUURP! Twitchy took another swig of his cup with little consideration for those around him. Draining the totality of its contents revealed a small metallic fragment. Upon further investigation, he realised it was an optic chip.

Nothing was better after a pretty much useless day of scrounging through garbage than caffeine. Soycaf, it was lifeblood, it was energy. Twitchy loved the stuff. He hadn't even bothered to shower before he came here. Not that he's really got a reliable place to shower anyway. Nope. Water wasn't even running at the garage. But soycaf made that something he didn't need to consider. Not even some bully could ruin his mood. Well, until the chip.

What the hell's a chip doing in his soycaf?
Who put a chip in soycaf?
The Goverment?
Lone Star?
Aliens?

Someone was bugging his soycaf. Someone who wanted his suit. His power. Someone wanted to steal it from him.

Wait, no. That didn't make sense. It wasn't even a surveillence chip... was it? No, no it wasn't, he could see that. He fished the chip on out of his soycaf, and jumped out of the seat. He needed to get to the garage, he needed to play the chip. To his Scoot!

The eerie pale green glow of a single gaslight was all that illuminated the darkened confessional. Inside, a rather disturbing and baroque jester sat idly by as the neon outline of a stylized nun kneeled before him, servicing him in a most non-nunly fashion. In the distant background, the echoing cacophony of a choir could be heard singing, yet the jester simply sat there with a bored expression on his mummified white face.

"Surely she can't be serious. This is one of the most humdrum sims I've ever experienced," the pantaloon exasperatedly sighed to himself. Just as he was about to prematurely end the CalHot, a bizarre plunger-shaped icon appeared in thin air before him.

"Curious," he thought aloud as he reached up to touch the icon, opening the message. "The Vicious Vole, eh? Curiouser and curiouser."

A slide of the hand pushed the window out of the punchinello's view. Grabbing the virtual nun by the habit, he ripped her head back and off of him as he stood up and slid the confessional booth's curtain to the side. Stepping out, he once again found himself standing in the middle of the Seattle Public Access Grid. A myriad of both fascinating and blase icons sauntered past, few if any paying the heart-painted jack any mind as he stood there. Turning around, he reached up and grabbed the small icon floating nearby and opened a new window with his other hand, shoving the icon inside it. As he did so, the return address information for Cheri Maraschino appeared in the header.

"That sim needs a lot of work, doll" was all he said as it transcribed itself into the window. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "try making her a little more aggressive, and maybe add a priest in the next booth, asking for penance or some such. I think that would make things a bit more interesting, don't you?" Satisifed, he touched the window and sent it.

With yet another sigh, the jester pulled up the previous window and read it over again. "Vicious Vole... Vicious Vole..." he thought. "Doesn't ring a bell." Suddenly, another swipe of the hand brought forth a new window, and the macabre little mime began composing another instant message.


"Sorry to be a bother, love, but do you know anything about someone or someones calling themself the Vicious Vole? If you have, get back in touch with me ASAP if at all possible. Kisses."
--The Knave of Hearts (11:37:47/08-17/56)


He read the message over, then nodded to himself -- the tiny bells of his hat jingling quietly -- before sending it to one of the many secret accounts of the Mad Hatter.

Then, without further ado, the ribaldry-rousing merrymaker wove his hands in the air as if on a mission for God, searching the grid for the elusive Valdez Intramural League Host. It took him some time to find it (relatively speaking, of course) but once he did he wasted little time in maximizing it and stepping through the resulting doorway to begin searching for the mysterious file as was requested of him...

Sighing with contentment, Badger eased himself into the near-scalding bathwater and stretched the bruised muscles of his thigh. One of these days I've really got to get some dermal sheathing implanted... he mused silently. Either that, or learn to dodge better. The mark had been a tough track, and fast enough when finally cornered to put a couple of bullets his way before Badger had nailed him with the scopolomine/DMSO squirt. The one round he hadn't avoided had caught the lower flap of the Mortimer's Ulysses longcoat a few inches above the knee, and though the plates and Kevlar underneath the wool exterior had stopped the slug the impact had still left a rapidly fading bruise the size of a child's fist.

Badger thought of the hole in the coat's fine exterior ruefully, then reflected that the contract would more than cover the needed repairs.

Half an hour's soak in the gradually cooling water sufficed to ease much of the pain from his thigh and the tension from his posture. He gingerly lifted his broad frame from the tub, towelled off, and prowled towards the den as he pulled on a robe. So... now that I've brought that scumbag back to the "interested parties", let's see what might be on the roster for the near future. After all, I'm not that far in the black as finances go.

He settled back into the cushions of the long sofa and snicked the cyberdeck's fiberoptic cable home into the data-socket behind his right ear. The deck Badger had was nothing special, or so Casey had indicated when she'd provided it to him a few months back, but it sufficed to explore the Matrix and perform data-searches for trackdowns. For the moment, he was content to simply peruse messages from his various Matrix drop-boxes and --

Hello, what's this? The plunger-tipped arrow-icon in his private mesage-box immediately caught his attention. The Vicious Vole? I'd almost think that was a preposterous name if most in the shadows didn't call me "Badger". Still, it's a potential job... With a few keystrokes, he dashed off a quick query about the Matrix-name to Lady Cheng, a shadow-decker he had made the acquaintance of a few months before, and began the process to locate the access node that the message mentioned.

The cool night air coming through the window ruffled Lilt's thick black dreadlocks as he waited in the traffic jam. On his way back home for some much-needed R&R; he taps the steering wheel and moves his mouth in time to some muffled words as a steady reggae beat pumps through the van.

A beep, almost inaudible against the music (which is being shared with the surrounding cars by virtue of volume) catches his attention as he retreives a personal secretary from his pocket tan thumbs a key. there is a brief animation of a toy plunger arrow hitting the left of the screen as a message scrolls-out-of the arrow.

"Viscious Vole..." he runs the name through his head. Coming-up a-blank he shrugs and reads the rest of the message.

The music continues steadily until he reaches his destination, a moderately plain apartment building 2 blocks over from his starting place. "Dammn Traffic" he thinks to himself as he punches the power off on the music sytem and exits the van, continuing whatever song that was just playing in his own voice.

As he gets up-to his appartment, he dumps his gear and heds-over to the telecom system. Jacking in; he punches-up the Valdez Intramural League Host...

Valdez Intramural League Host

A brilliant light shot out at Valentine. Recoiling from the shock and raising his arms from in front of his eyes, he slowly adjusted. Stepping through the portal, he saw a vacant room except for a single object at the dead center of the room. The green on green grid illuminated a path straight towards it. Upon further investigation, the man realized it was a cartoon super hero in the vain of those back in the ‘90s like Mighty Mouse and the Darkwing Duck. A high pitched voiced emanated from the animal, “I see you are interested in my proposition. Ostentatious.” The way he said it screamed that his was a catch phrase of his and that he’d be saying it a lot. “I will meet with you in person on the 20th. The details have been attached to your persona.”

A sheet of toilet paper had mysteriously attached itself to his foot.

After jacking out and examining the data that had been downloaded onto the on-ship computer, he knew this was going to be a doozy.

“You and your would be team mates will meet with an associate of mine at the corner of 198th and Tamperton. Come alone, without weaponry, and curious. There we will iron out the details of what you’re to do for me. As a word of warning, don’t try too earnestly to find anything about me, I assure you it will come to no avail and possibly it may incur personal injury in some way shape or form. There is little you need know now, though I will entice you with a meager morsel of information beyond what I have said. You will performing an extraction of sorts, if you have predetermined objections to this, I suggest you back down now.”

Valdez Intramural League Host, 10 minutes later.

Cheng had shown him a shortcut on how to get to the host and Badger was very pleased. He ran through the exact same routine as Valentine had up to exiting, at which time he ran in to Lilt on the way out.

Lilt's persona, A white van with a stencilled tropical scene on the side, potters through cyberspace as all manners of iconography zoom bast him. As he nears the host, a bright portal appears and another icon exits right infront of him.

Lilt's van approaches the persona and the window winds-down, releasing a cloud of digidal ganja-odoured smoke and reggae music into the surrounding net. Over the music a voice calls out in a thick Jamaican accent: "Hexcuze me is this de Valdez Intramural League Host?".

Dante's Inferno rises nine sinful levels above Seattle, the hot spot of the moment. Generally, the place is packed from floor to ceiling to ceiling to ceiling, and tonight is no exception. Nine floors pulsate with a bassal throb of Post-Industrial German techno and the energy of sweating bodies pressed against each other. Everywhere, flesh and fashion clash and pulsate together as the entire club rocks the night away.

As the lights strobe their insidious flashes to the subsonic tones of the massive speakers, club kids, many in various states of undress against each other and grind. The whole experience is something akin to a flesh sim-chip, only even more vivid. A haze hangs above the dance floors, the atomized sweat of dozens of bodies.

One of the figures, lithe and female, is expelled from the pulsating mass that is the dance floor. She runs a hand through her short spiky hair, her hand instantly soaked with sweat. She is dressed like most of the kids here, in clothing far too expensive for the amount of flesh it leaves bare. A smile is plastered on her face, and sweat forces the taut fabric she wears to cling almost pornographicly to her form. She slides through the last vestiges of the dance crowd to the relative calm of one of Dante's bars.

The bartender seems to recognize her and drops a napkin and tall drink in front of her. He doesn't say anything, though it's fairly obvious that anything less than a full shout wouldn't be audible across the pulsating roar of the club. The drink itself seemed to glow in the strobe and black lights of the club, almost boiling, though it was cold to the touch. The girl pulled the favor out of the drink and gulped it down. She stopped suddenly as something caught her eye.

Fishing in the bottom of the tall glass, she pulled an optical chip from the bottom of the cup. She caught the bartender's eye and yelled across the roar of the room, "Nitro, what the frag is this doin' in my fraggin' drink?"

The bartender shrugged and yelled back, "No idea. Didn't put it there!"

She let him go, and pocketed it. Whatever it was, it might be worth looking into. After this last song, at least.

Fueled by the synthetic alcohol, she pushed her way back onto the dance floor as another set of pulsating rythmns began to wash over the club.

No weapons, hmm? The stocky, longcoat-clad, anthropomorphic badger-icon stashed the piece of paper in an inside pocket, and like a stereotypical image of a pulp detective, pulled its hat down to shade its eyes and lit a cigarette as it slipped out of the Valdez node. He deftly avoided contact with a oversized white van that was oozing pungent smoke as it clumsily approached the node. Spirits. I thought I was less than adept in cyberspace. Sure hope that's not the lead decker the client's contacted.

The badger-icon shoved its hands in its pockets and stalked quickly away from the node with a grimace on its face. What the...? Badger counteracted the movement as he moved away, pulling the icon's hands out of its pockets, and ran a quick code-query against the persona programs. Another one of Casey's EEG icon easter eggs, I guess. She's always saying I have to be less grumpy.

He resolved to take her out to a pleasant, sit-down restaurant for dinner sometime soon. She was a solid friend, who had done right for him on more than one occasion, and neither one of them got out socially often enough. Badger knew she meant well. At least I got her to remove the Blazing Saddles flatvid pun. Sure, it was funny the first time, but if it had gone off while I was in negotiations with a client...

No weapons tended to mean an exceptionally nervous client, and the rest of the message backed up that conclusion. The bit about not trying to find out who the Johnson was didn't strike Badger as particularly unusual, but the heavy-handed warning did. Most corporates tended to leave it unsaid. For Badger, at least, "no weapons" didn't mean "unarmed" -- and he decided to carry at least a few distractions, just on the off-chance that it was a setup. A flash grenade or a cloud of smoke at a critical time could prove quite useful if matters went sour.

Lilt shrugs as the badger persona he was attempting to talk to zips around him. Dammn Deckers, always in a rush. He enters the host, giving the passcode from the previous message. Circling the odd cartoon-esque character in the center of the room, a sheet of paper mysteriosly finds it's way under the passenger-side windscreen wiper.

Checking the paper, he saves the message and heads back to his apartment for [edit]lunch[/edit]...

With a bit of a sigh, the Knave of Hearts reaches down to pluck the toilet paper from his curved, bell-tipped shoe. But before the unruly jack has a chance to read it in full, an antique stained-glass clock straight from the annals of Alice in Wonderland manifests before him. Slowly the clock's face transmogrifies into that of a emaciated orange and brown cat with a devilish grin. "Meow," the cat purrs quite sinisterly, "from this realm most digital and murky, t'is time to jack out or turn into jerky." The alarm clock stated. The feline fades from view leaving behind only that same, wicked grin... the only remaining evidence of the peculiar wake-up call.

"Damn, it's already half past noon?" the jester thinks to himself as he reaches up and manifests a pull-down menu out of thin air, tapping the File and Save commands in rapid order. With the Vicious Vole's note safely stored in his cyberterminal's database, the Knave issues the command to jack out...

-=*=-

The transition from one world into the next is as silky smooth as usual, and Valentine needed to blink his eyes only few times as his flare compensators adjusted to the bright August sun's light. When the wireless connection to his cyberterminal lessened its RAS override noose from its master's neck, Val was assaulted by the unmistakable scent of a woman's arousal. Tilting his reclined head to the left, he quickly spots the source of the overwhelming scent: Three young bikini-clad teenagers, one elven and two human, leaning against the railing of a neighboring yacht about twenty meters away.

With a simple little smile to himself, he turns his head back to it's former position. He then gives an audible yawn before stretching, offering the cackle of girls enough time to scurry away before they realize their innocent voyeurism had been spotted.

Standing, Valentine gives another wide stretch to awaken his sun-bathed muscles. His firm and athletic body glistens with a thin layer of sweat, but quickly evaporates as the bay's breeze washes over him. Out of the corner of his eyes, Val catches one of the young girls -- the blonde elf -- stealing another peek from around a corner as he wraps the towel around his waist. Her violet eyes dance in the sunlight as they seem to reach out and caress his tanned body nervously, clearly marveled by the myriad tattoos decorating his form. What few telltale signs of Ms. Stitch's brilliant job of upgrading his dermal sheath exist, they are cleverly hidden by Catbones' tattoo work making it all but impossible to even tell he's had any chrome implanted, let alone something as invasive as subdermal armor, without a close hands-on inspection.

Valentine reaches up and runs his fingers through his short, angry, sun-bleached hair as he turns to head into the cabin. Just as he's about to slip through the doorway, he turns and winks at the young elf who giggles embarrasingly before disappearing from view.

-=*=-

Once inside the luxuriously-appointed cabin of his Sea Nymph, the former bodyguard's entire demeanor seems to change. His posture becomes more formal, his features more cold and sterile. He picks up a small remote control near the door and clicks it a few times, apparently aiming it at nothing in particular. Nonchalantly, Valentine tosses the remote onto a nearby table just as some golden oldies from the twentieth century quietly fill in the soundless void that once existed therein.

Reaching up to his temple, Valentine pulls out a small chip with a tiny little antenna attached to it and drops it onto the desk next to his Fairlight terminal.

"Cadbury," he says aloud, his voice surprisingly gentle and non-threatening considering his demeanor. "Any messages?"

An electronic chirp replies to his request, followed soon thereafter by a distinguished Englished voice. "One new message, sir." The unseen manservant chirps again. This time, a seductive milk-and-honey voice fills the air, though her accent is every bit as English as Cadbury's.

"Hi Christian," Yumi's distinctive voice begins, the tone clearly one of disappointment. "I was just informed that I have to fly to Paris in an hour for an important meeting with my division head, so I'm afraid I won't be able to make our dinner date tonight. I promise to make it up to you when I get back, th..."

Before the message could finish, Valentine interupted it. "Cadbury, end message and delete."

A double chirp. "No new messages waiting."

During the message, Valentine had maneuvered into his sizable bathroom and started a shower. The room quickly filled with steam as he stepped inside to rinse off the sweaty grime from earlier. Inside, he just leaned against the wall as he felt the hot water cascading over his body.

"Cadbury," he once against commanded. "What's my schedule like tonight." Inside the shower, a small trideo screen illuminated with the face of a stereotypical butler. The same voice from before began to speak after giving another digital chirp.

"You have a reservation with Yumi Ahl'Dae for 6:00pm at Lakewood Shezan in Tacoma. You also agreed to accompany Oscar Kanahele to the Murdered Mime in Renton at 7:30pm tonight where you were going to fill in for Ginger as a favor. There are no other scheduled plans pending for tonight, sir."

"Very good," Valentine responds. "Cancel the reservation at Lakewood Shezan and prepare to send the following voicemail to Oscar Kanahele." The butler chirped twice. "Hey Oz," he began, the tone of his voice changing to a more mellow and relaxed one. "It's Valentine. I'll be dropping by your apartment at around 5:00 tonight so we can go over what we're playing tonight and shit, then I'll take you and the rest of the group out to dinner before we hit the Mime. It's on me. See you then." A pause. "End message and playback." Cadbury does as requested. Satisfied, Valentine orders the secretary to send the message as he finishes with his shower.

-=*=-

Fifteen minutes later, and Valentine is sitting at his desk reading over the message he retrieved from the Vicious Vole. "198th and Tamperton, hmm, that's in Renton isn't it?" Accessing one of the many mapsofts he has of Seattle, Val tries to pinpoint the exact address.

"Cadbury, add the following appointment for 8/20/2056: You are to meet the Vicious Vole at 198th and Tamperton in [confirmed district] at [see OOC note] for a possible job. Compensation for your manhood is not required, so leave the toys at home." The secretary chirps yet again.

The next few hours fly by as Valentine gets ready for his gig tonight. He eventually settles on a pair of tight faded jeans, a pale green t-shirt, and his armored leather jacket; very tres chic in that scuzzy blues singer sort of way. He also tucks one of his Savalette Sentinels into a shoulder holster, just in case, as well as slipping his Walther into an ankle holster. Before he goes to get his things he also unplugs Cadbury, his pocket secretary, from the yacht's master console and slips him into one of his jacket's inner pockets as well as his skillsoft jukebox (after replacing his Computers 'soft back into its slot). With a bit of practiced ease, he fandangles their thin cords up under his jacket and down his sleeves, plugging them into their respective jacks.

Grabbing one of his three guitars, this one even signed by Maria Mercurial herself back when he still working for her, and one of his portable amplifiers, Val locks up and heads out onto the marina proper. A few of his neighbors smile and issue a friendly wave to him, each one met by a similar smile and a nod from the surprisingly attractive human. When he finally makes it out to the parking lot and is about to hop into Harlot, a sleek, black Lexus XTC-870 sporty convertible, he goes over the game plan in his head. "I think I'll drive-by that address the Vole gave me just to check it out beforehand," he ponders after mentally plotting his route to Oz's pad. "Nothing's worse than walking blindly into an ambush."


[OOC: When exactly are we supposed to meet at that location on the 20th? Noon? At dusk? First thing in the morning? 2:47 and 18 seconds? And August 20th, 2056 is on a Sunday, right? Oh, and if you (or the others) would rather I rush through the rest of this stuff, which is basically just me having fun with some contact upkeep stuff, and get to the heart of the run ASAP, I'm cool with that, too. Just having a bit of fun. ]

[Insert appropriate location]

There he lay on a mat. A severe comatose case it appeared with seemingly little hope of recovery. He had been brought in off the street by his compatriot. A French-looking dwarf by all accounts, even topped with a beret, the compatriot had promised substantial compensation for reviving the man to a coherent state. Perfect stillness that came from only the most deep states of sleep and relaxation of muscles. The first attempt at awakening had been entirely futile. The standard defibrillator pulse hardly seemed to even phase him. All subsequent methods had faired equally well. But as has been evidenced many times over, appearances can be deceiving. Coming ‘round for another try, Stitch was shocked as he saw the man was no longer there for whatever reason. In his stead sat another of the small optichips.

OOC: If Stitch checks it out, feel free to assume that you get the same general gist as the others received.

Barrens Garage

Loud banging noises echoed all around him from a new urban brawl going outside. Then came a grinding like that of saw on bone and it went silent. These were common and hardly unexpected for Twitchy. He had all but become nullified towards them. The dwarf was more focused on discovering the meaning behind this mysterious chip. A bit of a problem was coming out of the fact it had been doused in soycaf so the message it relayed was more than a bit scrambled. Fortunately the necessary information was still decipherable. He learned much the same that the others had, except for a single line, “arriving in your ‘suit’ would be advisable.”

Lilt scrapes the last of his SoyGumbo from the pan as the incoming call alert on his personal secretary sounds for the 3rd time. Picking-up the plate in one hand and the secretary in the other, he thumbs the accept button as the face of a dwarf with a somewhat congealed side-parting fills the screen.

"Lilt! Hey; I just got us a new secretary! You should see her credentials, she... Well... Just look!"
Lilt sighs, filling the screen is a picture of a busty, blonde, fake bimbo. "Kendal; Don' we already have a secretary?" and after another glance at the picture "Isn't that her?"
"Look at the eyes! Stacy has blue eyes." The picture on the screen is replaced with another picture of a busty blonde. "Now Rebecca here has brown eyes." The screen splits showing the two images together "If we keep both of them; we could appeal to a wider audience! Anyway; you always said we needed a new secretary."
"No, I said we need a secretary that won't call-in sick if she breaks a nail." Lilt replies, his voice voice seeming somewhat less jamaican than before. "Can this one at-least count? Or would it be another chipjack job? You remember what happened last time."
There's a long pause from Kendal. "mmm...OK." Came the mumbled reply. "Big Dee dropped by too." Kendal added as an after-thought. "Looked like someone had taken a potshot at him; he had a hit in the shoulder but it hit nothing serious. Tough scrag he is, I don't think he has anything serious in'im to be hit! We just stuck a bandage on it and gave him the usual discount."
Lilt nodded, exchanged parting words, and hung-up.

Bringing-up a map of seattle on the telecom; lilt copies the location of the street-search into memory while he wolfs-down his meal.

Delving into his wardrobe; lilt suits himself up in his usual motorcycle gear (FFBA + RT Heavy Jumpsuit + Skillsoft Jukebox + Helmet + Hardliner Gloves) and heads back down to the tennant's garage where he mounts a Harley-Davidson Chopper and pilots it experly out of the garage.

198th and Tamperton

A light drizzle fell from the sky as was typical. Today was a fortunate one indeed for it hardly seemed acidic. Very few distinguishable characteristics existed at this location. The dreary sky blended flawlessly with the equally droll warehouse buildings sitting on each corner and lining the streets in any direction for as far as the eye could see. Appearing long since abandoned even by the riffraff that often put themselves up in such places. Broken slabs of asphalt rose and fell alternately on the road of this obviously little-visited location. A drunken hobo pressed the brown paper bag to his lips for another swig of the potent synthahol. Rumbles of thunder slammed against the concrete walls in a vain attempt to knock the pitiful creatures to their knees. They continued looking on without any means of expressing emotion and probably wouldn’t have even if they could. He fell over with a pronounced burp and subsequent thud. Little else was truly going on at the location.

A few droplets of rain pattered off the waterproofed hood of his longcoat, and the designated meet time approached at last.

From within the shadows of a sheltered doorway, Badger squatted quietly on his haunches and observed the designated corner from a few dozen meters away. He'd arrived nearly an hour before, parked his Nissan-Holden Brumby a third of a klick away in a location with exits to several sides, and selected a vacant stoop as observation point after careful perusal of the area's inhabitants. He was used to waiting from the many targets he'd taken into custody over the past several years, but still he wondered if he'd grown paranoid when a situation like this arose.

The layered kevlar of his form-fitting armor, combined with the thickness of the Ulysses longcoat, warmed his body. The feel of the three mini-grenades he had tucked under an elastic wristband (two flash, one IPE concussion), currently well-concealed by the sleeve of his coat, was a great comfort, but it was the weight of his Predator III, comfortably and far more dryly ensconced under the Brumby's driver's seat, that he longed for. Could well be a trap... but if it's a real contract, the client might get irritated over the disobeying of his request. If it isn't, well...

Calling the image-link to life, he murmured a command to his pocket-sec. It promptly fed the requested data through the fiberoptic line to his datajack, and he took another look at the weather system rolling in. Looks like it'll be getting heavier later on tonight. The precipitation could provide excellent cover if a quick escape became necessary, and his vision cut through it with ease. Sat-images of the local street layout sans cloud cover were already in his headware memory, and he'd plotted out three potential escape routes to get back to his car and away.

If it's not a setup, at least I've come prepared. A trio of linguasofts -- Salish, Mandarin, and Cantonese -- sat in his chipjack, and the digital phonemes of another three -- Japanese, Russian, and Korean -- took up a sizeable portion of his headware memory.

He took another bite of his freshly-purchased pastrami reuben, washed it down with a swallow of Tir Mist (the sweet, carbonated Tairngire-made soda remained one of his favorites, despite the more popular epithet that was attached to the yellow-green beverage -- "Elf Piss"), and waited for something to happen.

What was that line? "I always think everything might be a trap... which is why I'm still alive."

198th and Tamperton

The Harlot screeched to a halt just in front of one of the warehouses as the last to arrive. With Twitchy and Badger standing off to the opposing corner striking up a conversation, very little interaction is going otherwise. Lilt had ridden over on a BMW Blitzen while Kat arrived in a Brumby made by Nissan. Stitch had apparently reached the location by foot. More or less dead silence emanated from everywhere aside from the continuous leaky sky dumping its contents on to the ground and its inhabitants. The time at last struck 20:20 and various device alarms were set off as reminders of such. BOOM Rubble flew everywhere with little regard for where it hit. A small section of the concrete sidewalk had been eliminated revealing a small hole. The forbidding image contained a dark hole and ladder by which to navigate it.

Friday the 18th, 4:47am

Opium Backrub had a good night at the Murdered Mime tonight. The crowed went wild when Ginger started wailing out the group's cover of Your Daddy Don't Know, though Valentine suspected it had more to do with the micro-mini school girl uniform she was wearing than the song itself -- those young Japanese "professional types" (read: Yakuza soldiers) really seem to eat that shit up. Regardless, the group still managed to get signed up for another week's work at the Mime and Val got some stage time even if he did fuck up a few chords during Lil' Bloodred Ridin' Hood.

It was a good thing Ging managed to show up, though. That Szechuan-style Chengdu squid Valentine ordered at the Bangkok Hut nearly left him speechless all night. Even now, ten hours later, he was still slurping down an orange-flavored SoyKrushee to try and sooth his inflamed taste buds as he roared through the nearly empty streets of Seattle to check out the address for the meet with the Vole in two nights.

Ever the professional and with just over an hour until dawn, Valentine started to slow down as he approached the intersection at 198th and Temperton for a quick reconnaissance. About two blocks back he activated Harlot's sensors and asked her to record everything into her databanks so that he could burn a quick mapsoft of the area in time for the meet when he got home.

With his windows rolled down and the top pulled back so that he could enjoy the night air, Valentine actually smelled the wino before he saw him. At first he just thought that Chengdu squid was still fucking with his sense of smell, but the overwhelming stench of Wild Turkey and clothes that should have been burned rather than worn quickly corrected that assumption. He just stared the bumm down as he cruised by...

Satisifed that he had cased the scene sufficiently, Val punched in the coordinates for the marina and let Harlot drive him back while he checked to see if Cadbury had any messages from the Mad Hatter yet.

-=*=-

Sunday the 20th, 7:00pm

It was the night of the meet and Val was a bit surprised to see that he was apparently not the first on the scene. "What do you know," he mused to himself. "Professionals. How refreshing."

Loading his Computers 'soft, Valentine quickly set up a telecomm link between Harlot and Cadbury so that he could keep her sensors displayed on his image link. Just as he was finishing up and reloading his Interrogation 'soft, he nearly broke his fingers as he instantly unholstered one of his pistols and slammed his fist into Harlot's side window when the explosion rocked the vehicle. What little pain there was quickly evaporated.

"Then again, maybe not so professional," he sighed as he reholsterd his Sentinel. "And fuck, I'm going to have to remember to get Ms. Stitch to get that new reflex trigger installed ASAP."

With that, Val opened his door and got out just as the others began to do the same. He was still opening and closing his fist to try to wash off the fading remnants of his near-injury as he unfastened the custom harness he used to carry his weapons and tossed it onto the passenger seat. With one more quick look around, he locked Harlot up and set her alarm.

While Val may have been the last to arrive at the location, he was definitely the first to arrive at the hole in the sidewalk. The rubble crunched beneath each footstep as he made his way to the sight of the explosion. Crouching down, he activated his eyelight system and scanned the inky darkness below as a few of the others began to make their way to his position.

Standing back up and readjusting his suit, he spoke aloud only two words.

"Who's first?"

"All in good time. I'd guess you're not the Vole, given your sudden reaction to this mess," remarked Badger, gesturing at the steaming crater from a good three meters away. "So what d'you go by?"

Lilt, upon arrival, removes his helmet and balaclava revealing ethnic jamaican features complete with a set of shoulder-length dreadlocks. He waits against a wall with his balaclava stuffed in his helmet, which in-turn hangs from his forearm. Nodding to anyone already present, and to others as they arrive, he scans the scenery and others around him looking for any further clues as-to the nature of the meeting.

When the pavement explodes; He spins-round, startled, but this quickly fades to bemusement, and then amusement as dons a wry smile and chucles slightly to himself.

"Wha'do we 'av here den?" he asks noone in-particular, still somewhat amused.

Not in any clear hurry, he dusts some minute shards of pavement out-of his dreadlocks, wanders over to the hole, peers in, walks back over to his motorcycle and retreives a small pack from under the seat. Donning the pack and his helmet again (but with the visor up); he wanders back to the hole and heads down without hesitation. (if someone else is going down first, he'll wait his turn)

[edit]Just contemplated the problems of trying to climb down a ladder wearing a helmet[/edit]

Stitch wanders up to the gaping hole in the ground just a little bit behind the others. So far, this job seems interesting. The Johnson is obviously not a pro at hiring people - he made a few awkward mistakes that a seasoned suit would never make - but Stitch has been screwed over equally by the pros and the amateurs, so he decided to check it out anyway.

"You guys must be the rest of the team. I'm Stitch." he says laconically. Stitch smiles, a mellow, unfazed grin (although he looks at the powered suit a bit curiously). Stich is a thin man with close-cropped pale blonde hair and bronzed skin. He is wearing casual clothing - although the practical but very expensive Ulysses coat protecting him from the rain belies any notion that he is an average working Joe. He is wearing slim mirrorshades and carrying an army surplus duffel bag.

He shakes his head ruefully as he sees Lilt start down the hole, but he also quickly shrugs and follows him down.

Badger raises an eyebrow and reflects on the wisdom of wearing mirrorshades in a rainstorm at night as the thin man draws close. "People call me Badger. I suppose you --"

He breaks off as Stitch beelines for the hole in the sidewalk, continuing after the thin man's head has disappeared from sight. "-- you would be the laconic, impulsive one."

He stares at the crater, waiting for the telltale sound of screams from below or bloodied body parts being tossed up through the gap. After a few seconds where such evidence fails to materialize, he glances at the well-dressed man standing beside the hole and comments, "Fools rush in and all that drek, huh?"

Badger pulls out a small flashlight, flicks a switch on it, and pans it around. Despite there being very little if any light from it within the visible spectrum, he seems satisfied. Setting his foot on the first rung of the ladder, he considers the man in the suit. "Never did catch your name."

Someone knew about the suit. Who knew? Who knew it was him? Someone knew. He didn't like that someone knew. Someone knowing meant someone wanting. Someone wanting the suit, everyone wanted the suit. So he had to meet this someone. See what they wanted with the suit.

Twitchy showed up to the meet alright, and in the suit. Standing at eleven feet tall, and almost as wide at the arms, the suit was definitly not your normal runner faire. The good thing when you're a paranoid little runt of a dwarf is, no one can see who, if anyone pilots the suit. Interfaced with the suit, Twitchy is empowered, he's calm, cool, collected. He's not exactly silent though. He runs his mouth a little too much, and clods around a lot.

When the explosion goes off, he turns with three loud clanking steps to view the resulting hole. As he moves forward, he peers down, and tosses up a spotlite onto the hole.

The mechanical thing -- humanoid, and troll-sized, but who could tell whether it was a drone or not? -- approached the hole with a steady thoom, thoom, thoom, grinding fragments of sidewalk to dust beneath its feet. Badger looked over at the hulking metal mass, back at the well-dressed man, down at the ladder he stood on in the relatively small hole in the concrete, and then back to the anthroform with a dubious expression.

"That's going to take some doing, I'd say." He looked down into the shadowy depths of the hole and shouted to those below. "Hoi! Just how much space is down there, anyways?"

When Valentine heard the ground-shaking steps of the overgrown tinker toy approaching his position at the hole, he quickly stood up and backed away from it. His hand instinctively went for a gun inside his overcoat, at least until he realized that he left it back in Harlot. When the iron behemoth flooded the area with it's spotlight, he felt his flare compensators kick in automatically, though he still shielded his eyes with his hand.

The golem's presence even distracted Valentine from Badger's polite greeting, but the ex-bodyguard eventually shook his attention away from the obnoxious construct long enough to return a greeting of his own. He studied the dwarf for a moment, not entirely sure if he was a dwarf, then reached out with his hand. "That would be a safe assumption. The name's Valentine."

After a few more words, Val again turned his attention to the... the... the thing. "What kind of a drekwit would hire something that arrives at a meet like that?" he pondered. "Well, if push comes to shove, at least it'll make a nice magnet for any weapons fire while the rest of us get our collective asses out of the fire." An exasperated sigh followed as he just stood there, staring at the metallic monster while Lilt and the others began to make their way down the rabbit's hole into Wonderland...

He took Valentine's hand and shook it. Hmm. Subdermal induction pads. Smartlinks -- for all the good they'll do us with no firearms. Probably cybered, then -- samurai, or ex-company man, maybe.

He looked up at the hulking mass that loomed over the hole. "Um... no offense, whoever or whatever you are, but ... stay. Stay. Just guard the hole, OK? I don't like the thought of " -- another quick glance to take in the scale of the construct -- "however many hundreds of kilos of metal falling on my head. So stay. Good drone."

He rolls his eyes at Valentine, then slides down the ladder's iron staves, muttering something to the effect of "bloody Japanimation fan-trid cyberzombies." Once at the bottom, however far that may be, he immediately clears out from directly beneath the puncture in the sidewalk and puts a hand on one of the pool balls inside his satchel as he moves.

"What the flamin' drek is that?" a feminine, though decidedly unladylike, voice asked from behind the suit. She didn't appear armed, but she did appear edgy, particularly about the battle suit.

"Fraggin' weirdest meet I've ever drekin' been 'invited' to, and some big fraggin' robot like outta some Euphoira trid is there. Robo-Johnson, maybe? Hello?" She slide around the bot and made her way to the forming group, recognizing shadowrunners when she saw them. As others began to make their way into the hole she looked very, very confused. "I guess the hole it is, though... an interesting chance of pace."

Twitchy look down to the hole, and to Valentine's retreating form. Gonna be a tight squeeze. The mechanical head of the suit rotates to look to the woman, and in a synthetic conglomerate of trid voices, both male and female, it speaks.

`They call me Powerhouse. I am no Johnson, whoever that is. I was summoned here.`

The head swivels back down to the hole, and Twitchy considers a moment.

`You should go first. Make sure the others are clear.`

After the prolonged effort of everyone delving from the above ground dreary recesses to the underground dreary recesses, things only grew more outlandish. It looked like some twisted soul had ripped the lair of Batman off the silicon screen and warped it into a demented hellmouth as it were. Fierce teeth lined the mouth while a monstrous mainframe of a home telecom system resided in the back. With little in the way of illumination, most of the room is bathed in shadows and darkness. A dark figure sat in front of it shrouding the only active feature from view.

“Ostentatious, simply ostentatious. As I am sure you have deduced, I am the Viscious Vole, but you may call me VV if you so desire. This is my Vole Hole,” he says with a slight chuckle, though definitely not a nervous one. With an eccentric wave of his arms as if to say that this was all his and he loved it like a son. “The Viscious Vole hopes you had little trouble finding the location.” Turning around with his mouth suddenly agape at the sight of the anthroform, VV looked as if he were about to wet himself. His face, and the rest of his body for that matter was covered in a thin layer of fur. Small, beady black orbs were where eyes should have been, although this feature is probably more common among Johnson’s. His small round head came to a point at the tip of his nose with several whiskers protruding on either side. Two tiny incisors overlapped the bottom lip. “You came, Powerhouse. Ostentatious! VV assumes that we are all here, correct? VV is sure the formalities are wearing thin, so let us get down to business. Now then, VV supposes we should begin with the basic premises. VV will be paying you to extract a good friend of mine.” A holographic image of a deceptively tall black elf appears on the telecom display grid. “As you may be able to tell, he is one of the Wayambi. A skilled warrior and shaman in his own right, Folami has been ‘acquired’ by a rival of mine. His current whereabouts are unknown, as are his state of mind and health.”

Lilt initially seems to be more interested in the decor, looking at the teeth on the entrance and testing one for sharpness, but as the holographic image comes up on the trid he takes a coupple of steps closer to examine.

Lilt turns back to VV, "Do ya have a shortlist of who might'ave taken him? Maybe a list of 'is talents so we can make our own descisions?" Then, returning to his scrutiny of the hollow projection, "Also: does'e'ave any implants or medical conditions? A medical profile would be useful in any case."

"Of course, of course. As VV said before, it was a rival of mine. Her name is Iris Tarent. She's a mover-and-shaker in Cross's Matrix Tech subsidiary with some revolutionary drek about ASIST being a stepping stone or some such. Your guess is as good as VV's as to where she is. Very international, that one. Folami is adept in polearms and staffs as far as direct combat while he truly shines with spirits and their applications. Before he left, VV knew of no medical conditions or implants."

Badger's eyes flit from side to side, taking in the panorama of the surreal before him. Ooooo-kay. Well, this is hardly the first nutcase I've worked for, and hopefully it won't be the last.

"All right, then. I have a few questions for you." He begins to tick items off on his fingers. "One -- where was Mr. Folami abducted from, or where was he last seen? Two -- when, to your best estimation, was Mr. Folami taken? Three -- do either Mr. Folami or Ms. Tarent have System Identification Numbers, as far as you are aware?"

"And finally -- precisely how much are you offering us for this 'expedition', and will you be covering any travel expenses? Particularly for this..." He gestured over his shoulder at the enormous metal hulk which now stood at the base of the recently greatly enlarged hole in the sidewalk. "... thing?"

Valentine simply stands near the rear of the group with a surprisingly non-plussed look on his face, mindful to keep that behemoth ironworks display well in his view. He says nary a word, simply listening attentively to the others and paying close attention to their reactions and questions.

All the while, of course, he's transcribing the details into Cadbury.

Twitycy contemplates, the readouts from his sensors a little sketchy, the audio feedback's a bit distorted, or maybe the guy's got a funny voice. He'll have to look into it either way. Maybe tweak the feedback filters. Come to think of it the third spotlight seemed a little dim; he'd have to replace the bulb. Once more the eerie conglomerate of voices speaks.

`The mechanically insensitive one has a point. If we are to travel, accomodations will need to be made for me.`

He wouldn't be leaving the suit. Nope. Well, not unless he really needed to pee. But not in front of witnesses. He can't be revealing he's not just a drone. Let them think it.

Upon hearing the overgrown rust bucket's words, Valentine just gives a quiet shudder under his voice... a shudder that would make Lurch from the old flatvid reruns of The Addam's Family proud.

"He was last seen in his home which resides in the Sioux Nation by VV on the 5th of this month. He rarely entertains visitors thusly it would be difficult to determine the exact date, but VV discovered his abduction on the 13th of the month. While VV is sure that both of them possess various authentic fakes they acquired through their contacts and connections for whatever purposes, VV is not privy to any specifics of them."

"As for your payment, VV is willing to fully reimburse all expenses deemed necessary by myself. Things such as international transit, certain equipment, medical expenses in excess of 5,000 Nuyen, and the like along with 30,000 Nuyen flat payment. VV will privately discuss 'that thing' as you so crudely put it with the operator after the rest of you have departed."

Stitch looks thoughtful. "We will also have to pay for information, especially picking up such a cold trail. Hopefully that will be factored into our expenses. Your initial offer seems fairly reasonable, but I think a retainer would not be out of line, given the time commitment you are asking from us - a sign of good faith from you, to match the good faith that we are showing you."

Stitch is curiously assensing the Vicious Vole, wondering if he is a hologram, someone masked in illusion, or some metatype, shifter, surged mutant, or victim of some variety of HMHVV. He is still using masking and his mirrorshades to hide his perusal.

Stitch has a faint smile on his face. He seems more bemused by their eccentric host, and the hulking powersuit/drone/whatever it is, rather than shocked.

Kat lets out a low whistle at the sight of the place. "Super chiller digs..." she mutters, but otherwise remains silent for much of the meet. As the mention of the Sioux nation is made, her eyes perk up.

When the mention of money is made, she licks her lips. "Geeze, we'd love to help and all, but the Sioux nation is a real killer place to get to. Ain't like most of us can use public transportation to get that far, an' I hear they've got some wizard chem sniffers on the Salish border these days. We'll have to bribe our way through the orks at the least... We might need some considerable working capital."

As Stitch spoke, a flash of recognition passed over VV's face. Only Stitch and Kat were able to notice it though. He was obviously attempting to shortchange the team by seeming overly generous.

"VV assumes that the standard half up front will be acceptable? As for international travel, VV believes he has already mentioned this. If you would prefer recommendations, VV would be able to oblige."

He's going to not only leave the city, but head across a border? This won't work, it can't. Calm, panic attack down. He'll be in the suit, what are border guards going to do?

`A way to get me across the border would help.`

The synthetic voice always did calm him. It was like having a chorus of friends.

Kat nods. "Even when you arrange it, the risks still go up a whole bunch. We'll be a long way from our support network... and I don't know if anyone even speaks the right languages."

Badger dismisses that concern with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry, I can speak the Sioux lingo well enough. And we can discuss transportation methods for, um," he snaps his fingers twice and points at the massive robotic frame as though trying to remember, "Powerhouse, later. I've got a few ideas, but this group you've assembled can talk over plans after we've completed our discussion here."

He looks back at their hirsute host. "Do you have a picture or file on Ms. Tarent that you can provide to us? Something of the sort might certainly help in the retrieval effort."

"Finally, I presume that flat fee you mentioned earlier is for the group as a whole. That's a reasonable sum for a trackdown and retrieval... but if there are unforeseen complications that increase our costs, what do we do? Submit to you an 'expense report' or something of the sort, after the job is complete? Personally, I'm a bit uneasy with that -- no offense, but transactions of this sort are, by their nature, off the books. It would seem more reasonable to have access to a certified account containing a limited sum, and contact you on the quiet if we were in need of additional finance."

Nearly forgotten in the shadows of the Vole's secret underground lair, Valentine simply continued to stand there while listening to the others discuss the deal. When the one calling himself Badger belied Kat's attempt to ooze a higher payment from the rodent, only to offer a poor attempt to do the same, the former bodyguard shook his head sadly and stepped forward.

"If I may be so bold," Val began, his voice dry but cool and collected. Nonetheless, his mere presence and demeanor seemed to demand attention. "But I don't think it would be wise if the lot of us," he gestured towards everyone present, "where to pile into the back of a single van in order to cross the border. Especially with that... thing," he again paused, pointing a disgruntled thumb at Powerhouse, "crammed in the back."

Valentine continued to step further into the dim light; his eyes completely hidden behind the inky black lenses of his round, wire-rim glasses. "It would be best if we were to cross the border independently, perhaps in as many as three different vehicles (especially those with 'hidden extras' if you catch my drift), each passing through a different checkpoint at a different time, then rendezvousing at some predetermined roadside hotel or other location once we're safely inside the Sioux Nation."

"This beautiful young woman," Valentine nodded in Kat's direction, "and myself could slip across as a vacationing couple in my Lexus. Our Rastafarian friend and the tin can could enter in a van or truck for some construction job of some type, while the rest of you could believably be part of a carpool traveling to Denver on business or for a convention. Or some other similar arrangement. And the more vehicles we have at our disposal while within their borders, the better."

"Our only significant travel expenses this way would be for fuel, a few detailed mapsofts, maybe a linguasoft or two for those capable of using such, and the fake IDs and passports needed to slip across... which, if memory serves, our humble employer has already agreed to pay for on our behalf." Val turned to look at the Vole, lifting a brow above the pitch black circles of his shades as asking for confirmation on his assumption. "And assuming so, I'm fairly confident that I could easily acquire said passports within a day or two."

"Alternatively, I might be able to arrange a friend of mine to smuggle us across, but that will be far more pricey, dangerous, and in my humble opinion, foolish. Especially considering that we don't know how long we will need to stay within those borders, or even if our targets are still located therein. With three vehicles of our own, we will also have more options available to return the target to our employer."

---

OOC: Throughout the discussion, Valentine has been using Interrogation (Verbal) skillsoft (5 dice with a Task Pool of 3 available) as a sort of human lie detector. He's taking careful note of the Vole's responses, trying to determine if he's being dishonest or is hiding something from us. He's also keeping an eye on the surface conditions via his telecomm link with Harlot's sensors.

"Going across in multiple groups makes perfect sense to me," comments Badger. "Although corporates going to a convention, it seems, would be more likely just to fly from here to Denver. I mean, come on -- when's the last time you saw one of those manicured suits dirty their hands by driving sixteen hours?"

He shakes his head in negation. "The rest of the plan sounds solid... but we'll have to rethink that last part. Again, I think that's something we can discuss once we've concluded our initial dealings with... VV... here."

`I don't know much about corporate types, but wouldn';t their hirelings, or aides travel by more economical means than air travel sometimes?`

Just a leap of logic, he has no real foundation of knowledge, but he knows how life on the streets works. Those on the bottom get a lot dirtier than the big boys. Why wouldn't it work the same in a corp?

`I believe it would be wise, to split our entries... if one team were discovered, then at least the others can continue.`

"VV has special interest in Powerhouse and will do whatever is necessary to allow him to participate in this run. VV will further discuss this with Powerhouse after the preliminary meet so as to allow the rigger the privacy he wants and needs. VV would also not want to waste any of your valuable time. As for the retainer, yes it would be for the group and the aforementioned system of gaining more funds would be essentially as discussed by Badger. VV can provide you with a optichip with a full holographic image and profile of Iris if that is what you would prefer. If the fake Ids are necessary, VV may be able to provide a limited few short-term solutions. Unless you seek aide in crossing over to the Sioux nation, VV has no preference as to how it should be done as it is obviously something that should be determined by the team as to what would work best for cover."

The man is having a battle of wills with himself to remain calm, cool, and collected throughout the meet, though he is winning without too much difficulty. Valentine is unable to notice little else then this. Meanwhile, Stitch's assensing attempts prove futile, unable to get more than the faintest reading on him. It's just as likely to be a dragon in human form as a cyberzombie as a highly initiated shaman displaying a horrendous shaman mask for all that the street doc can tell.

Kat nods. "Fake IDs would be good. And transport... but I think we're better off as one group going across the border, if we're on land. I hear the Salish do the searches at random, so we stand a better chance of slipping past as one group."

She raises an eyebrow. "Or we could charter a private plane. That should be good enough, if you don't mind bribing a pilot for a woodland landing."

Valentine simply lifts a puzzled brow above his shades at Kat's words. "That's precisely why going in several small groups is far wiser. Small groups stands a far lower chance of raising a red flag for a random check. 'Oh look,' one of the border patrol guards might say, 'there's a large van full of a motley group of individuals and a giant robot. Nothing suspicious there.'"

He paused and just stared blankly for a brief moment.

"Should we be stopped, at least only two or three of us will have to worry about the search as opposed to the entire group. And, as previously mentioned, a charted flight would leave us without transportation upon our arrival. Remember, we don't know where our targets are located or how much we'll need to travel to hunt them down."

Kat shakes her head. "Not from what I've heard... every fifth or sixth car gets searched. Bein' a red flag'll get you searched out of turn, but the odds of hitting the randoms goes way up."

She shrugs. "I guess the question is how many of us can stand up to a thorough search. I can if they don't get frisky with the cyberware scanners. An' a chartered flight only gets you no transport if you don't hire the right pilot and plane. I used to know a guy who ran a modded C-230 that'd hold a citymaster if you wanted it. I'd call him, but the last thing I heard 'bout him was that he was doin' fifteen to life for somethin' or other."

Fly? He'd never flown before. Which makes sense since he's never left the sprawl. He's not sure if he'd like it, but it seemed like a good idea. Why bother with authorities when they can be avoided?

`Transportation could be arranged when we arrive. I have the skills needed to procure it.`

He could jack a vehicle, null sheen.

Valentine's only response is to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose. "Yes, because as we all know, riding around in numerous stolen vehicles will be less risky than legally crossing a border as vacationers or travelers." With a hard-to-read look at the others, Kat and the tin can in particular, he just turns and returns to his previous position only a few meters from the entrance to the lair.

After doing so, he continues to simply stand there. In his mind, he struggles to rationalize why he should bother working with these amateurs, let alone a barmy client whose seen one too many trid shows. "Stealth is completely out of the question with that fucking piece of metal," he muses. "Why the hell this Saturday morning reject hired such an idiotic thing for a job of this nature is beyond me. Not only that, but that bitch there is clearly as irrational as every other specimen of her gender, and the job itself sounds abyssmally mundane. But you need the cash, Christian... you need the cash. So stay cool, man. Just... stay... cool. If push comes to shove, you can just slit their fucking throats in their sleep and watch them rot in the morning sun."

Despite the inner monologue flowing through his mind's eye, Valentine is the picture of collected calmness and professionalism as he simply stands there, apparently listening to the rest of the collected runners hash out the job.