Wherever you happen to be at about 10:00am on Monday, 9th of May, 2072

Your commlink gives it's customary alert of an incoming call. “Hey there, long time no see.� says the voice of a friend, and fixer “Hey look, know I haven't called in a while, been busy, you know how it is. Anyway, I got some work for you. A certain someone wants a certain something done with a certain level of anonymousness if you know what I mean? Look, anyway, he's getting together a group. I don't know what the job is, but he said he needed someone that matched your skills fairly well. Meet up with him at Dante's, 8th level. Tomorrow at 11pm.�

The message given, small chat continues for a while before the call eventually ends, leaving you with a little over 36 hours to prepare for the meeting. Dante's, good place, not too hard to get into though. Should be plenty of people about, but none likely to pay much attention, the standard sort of meeting spot.

Aradia is busily fragging away at the exceedingly badass HyperReal Tournament 2070 - despite her little issues with technology, she's acquired a mild matrix-game addiction.

Basking in the glory of a three-frag leaping chainfist decapitation, she barely notices the railgun slug tear past her head. Breaking into a run for the nearest bombed-out building, she sprays blind cover-fire over her shoulder and -- CONNECTIVITY ERROR --

The stark white of her unmodified home node assaults her senses, moments before her 'trode net unceremoniously falls off. precisely in unison with the unfamiliar hippy-dippy ring of her commlink -damned corporate marketing.

A few minutes later, she's ringing up Maggie, and a few minutes after that, they're playing electronic Rock-Paper-Scissors over the first round of drinks. "Why do these fucking goons always meet at diners an' shit? Haven't they read the '61 edition of Ill-Advised Trid Cliches?"

Regardless, she's already strapping on an unhealthy amount of ammunition - didn't need it, but it helps to keep up appearances, and for the runner scene? There's little more fashionable than armored steampunk-chic lined with bullets.

Richard puffed as --CONNECTIVITY ERROR-- flashed on the screen playing HyperReal Tournament 2070. He was ready to smash his rival into a big red stain with his rail gun but that was moot now. He blinked and the warm image of his messy home returned to his senses. He looked at a greasy burger still sitting in its wrapper half-eaten and grimaced. He needed to stop eating this crap.

Within minutes of being whipped back to reality he received a blare of new messages. He sighed and began pushing papers and empty shell casings out of the way looking for his gear. It was too early for this shit. Quarter of an hour later he's sitting on the edge of his bed completely suited up for work sans any identifiable markings. Last thing he needed was someone to see him toting Corporate markings on less than official business.

He felt the prickles of excitement on his neck as waited patiently. He checked his gear multiple times out of pure compulsion and reflex. It was better to be sure but he figured that the sixth time that nothing was going to break and if it did then he was going to have to do without. He was discreet in his dressing but he was aiming to be as imposing as humanly possible without being a bullet magnet.

He slipped on his balaclava mask and puffed once again. He really wanted to splatter her.

Mandy smiled as she flipped her welding goggles back into place. She was hoping for a job, times were getting tough and parts were not always easy to come by. That and she enjoyed the thrill of a run. There was nothing like a fast driving, hard working run to get the blood pumping. She went back to the endless modification of her Bulldog.

She was already planning her route to the Dante.

Grendel had been lounging comfortably, skimming through an assortment of news, politics, and fashion articles when the call came in. The usual small talk was shared; polite conversation that neither party was truly interested in, but it lengthened the exchange enough as to not seem rude. Runner jobs always brought a smile to his face, and this one was no exception...never a dull moment to be had with these propositions.

After a few hours of meticulous grooming and checking his gear he'd left the small, well-furnished home and headed for Dante's. Not his first choice for a meeting location, but he knew the place well enough, and it wasn't the worst he'd ever been to. A nice feature, at least, was that very little seemed too out of place, including a striking elf in a dark suit. What was more, for those who did tend to notice such characters, anyone matching his appearance was rarely troubled. In these circles, people who fit his description usually had connections, and that stereotype suited him just fine.

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