Saturday, April 7th. 1330 Hours. Seattle, UCAS.

This story begins in Seattle. And of course the rain is falling. It is not a simple drizzle either, rather another continual downpour of acid, making travel on this dreary day a pain in the ass. Seems like every other job these days has to do with tempo, drugs, or the fallout from the recent "restructuring" of the criminal underworld. It's been a dangerous past few months, with every major and minor player in the sprawl fighting tooth-and-nail for their place. Even the news is obsessed with tempo, and it seems like right now, every trid channel is covering yet another tempo -fueled crime spree. Governor Brackhaven promises a end to all of this violence soon, what a crock. You know that's not true.

Wouldn't it be nice to get away from it all? The Emerald City is not looking so crystal right now, and the only green that can be seen is smog congregating in the sky above. In between the cracks, alley ways, drug dens, squats, penthouses, jail cells, bar backrooms, and corporate megaliths; four conversations are about to occur. Four conversations which will hopefully kick off this tale.

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Dexter Pope barges through his apartment door. While arguing with his landlord about the latest rent amount, Dexter heard his commlink signal from inside of his room. He wanted to answer it, but the fat slob insisted that this apartment in the Redmond Barrens had 'character' and thus would be increasing Dexter's rent...again. Dexter swore to himself just as he entered. He was already to late. He went over to the commlink and operated the voice recording menu. Finding the missed call.

<<"Sigh. Dexter, are you there? It's Sue. Pickup if you're there.">> there was a slight pause. <<"Guess not. Listen. Your child support is due in a week, and I need it early. Catherine's college tuition is not going to pay itself. Gosh. If you had been a good father to her....*Another sigh*. Just get it to me when you actually have the money, God knows when that will be. By the way, Emma is being difficult with me again. She's always like this after seeing you. What the heck are you doing with her? Forget I asked. Bye Dexter. Bye.>>

Where the heck are you going to get the money Dexter? Rent is due. Utilities are due. Child support is due. Those midnight excursions to Tickler's aren't helping. That Gauss rifle you've been dreaming of is looking very far away my friend.

Hey the commlink is beeping again. Maybe it’s work. Your hopes are soon dashed. It’s only Bennie. You answer. Bennie looks like shit. He’s out of breath, talking incoherently, and anxious.

<<”Dexter! Glad I was able to contact you. You have to hear this. Let me catch my breath first. *Huff Huff*. Okay. Better now. I just spoke to Mr. T and he has a special request from a Ms. Johnson. Seems she has a need for a team to accompany here on a trip overseas. Somplace tropical, she says. If you’re interested she wants to meet you tonight at the club 77 in Renton. She’s got a room reserved for 1700 hours. Here is the address, and a code to broadcast when you get there. Let me know if you’re interested, because I might take the damn offer myself.>>

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Heads turn. Sun glasses fall to the bridge of their noses as she walks by. She brings sunlight to all of the men while walking through the Seattle rain. Vera Renczi. A woman of many faces. A woman of many talents. And a drek hot Shadowrunner in all meanings of the word. Running the Seattle Shadows has been tedious and irritating recently. It seems all your targets have been sleezy drug dealers or over-sexed mobsters recently. Where is the challenge? Where is the entertainment? Where is the appreciation of your art? You have been feeling like Da Vinchi painting a scene of the Brooklyn Bridge, when you should be translating something like the Eiffel tower.

Your commlink beeps. The user tag identifies the caller as “Orion.” A former ex Mossad military officer. Street Samurai. And one of the few men who has never oogled over you. You provide him a pleasent smile, who knows if it’s genuine. He answers.

“Vera.” His handsome Mediterranean features ever so prominent. “It looks like I was able to contact you. As usual, it is about business, not pleasure. A affluent Ms. Johnson recently contacted me, and asked if I knew anyone with international connections. Naturally I thought of you. She’s looking to formulate a team, one that will be traveling. If you are interested..I can send you information on the meet.”

[Orion sends you the same information Bennie provides Dexter. 1700 Hours, at the Club 77 in Renton. It is a high class club, so dress appropriately. You are also provided a code for an RFID tag to let you in.]

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“Fucking Belloq. ‘Bout time you got to Seattle.” John Smith barked over your commlink. The man’s bald head, eye patch, and long scar running down his left cheek did not match with his 2,000 nuyen glowing white Vashon Suit.

Hoddler, you find yourself in a middle class Westin’ Hotel somewhere in Downtown. John Smith is not really high on your “If I have an extra Seattle Seadogs ticket I’d give him a call right away list” but you do know he is connected, that is the reason why you tolerate him sometimes.

“Remember how I told you that the meet wasn’t for another three days? Well, I was wrong. It’s tonight at the Club 77. 1700 Hours sharp. Seeing what time it is, I’d say you have four hours to get your little beady halfer legs over to Renton. Serves you right for not taking a morning flight. Here is the RFID code that you’ll need to get in. By the way, I heard it’s a Ms. Johnson. Should be right up your alley right? Hehehe.”


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Hawkeye.

The man holding the sign at the airport was taking you to Renton. Of course you didn’t know that. You find yourself in the back seat of a Euro Car Westwind. Thus far the car ride hasn’t been bad. You look outside the window and notice the various metahumans loitering the streets. Orks, dwarfs, elves, trolls, and more orks. In Japan you never saw this many. They were all dressed in various fashions and attires. Beverly Hills meets Compton. The chauffer hasn’t been sleezy either. Once in awhile he asks you if you are comfortable in the back seat, or if you would the music changed. You even find the silence in between the two of you comfortable. Perhaps you knew this gentlemen in the past? Perhaps he was your friend? But probably not. Most likely is being hired to act as your initial liason in this metroplex and was simply being professional about everything.

On your left you pass a large factory and airfield, noticing the signs “Federated Boeing Renton Facility” in glowing AR. The advertisement has various roto drones of all shapes and sizes buzzing around like bees. You arrive at the underground parking garage. Mr. “Turned Out Not to Be So Sleezy” hands you a magcard and then points to a motorcycle in the garage. You step out of the car with all of your gear. Right before you slam the door shut, he speaks.

“Hey kid. One more thing. Here catch.”

He tosses, you a small chip which could be played in your commlink. It looks like a visual recording of some kind. The Eurocar Westwind, slowly drives away, and you wonder if you’ll ever see the driver again. When you play the chip, a visual recording pops up in a private display for you. What you see is you.

There she is Hawkeye. Dressed in casual clothing, sitting on a stool in a garage. Beside her is a table, littered with firearms of all assortments. To no surprise you see yourself cleaning and taking apart THE RIFLE before speaking.

“Good. Looks like you made it this far, so some people can still be trusted. Remember that.” You smile up at yourself a bit. “You're in Seattle, I've got one last thing for you, and then you're on your own.”

A set of alphanumerical numbers appear in the corner display of your commlink.

“Those are a set of RFID codes that will get you into Club 77 in Renton. Be there at 1700 Hours. You need nuyen and a place to lay low for awhile. This particular Ms. Johnson contacted me about a week ago, and explained that she needed to gather a team together for a run in Lagos. I told her you would hear her out. Good luck.”

The call ends. But hopefully a story begins.

Downtown Westin Hotel

Hodder flopped onto the bed and listens to his messages.

"Fracking Smith. Still calling me Belloq. What is with this guy and his obsession with those old 'movies'? And only four hours to the meet. I finally get my hands on the right materials and now I don't have time to bind a spirit. Why do I put up with him?

"Because you haven't worked your way up to someone better, fool," he answered himself.

"Club 77,huh? Well, the best I have is the Synergist suit. That'll have to do."

"Roger, John. I'll be there."

Hodder showered, had a bite to eat and dressed for the meet. He wore his suit and the PPP system underneath. Never know. No need for a spirit now, but he maintained the Boosted Willpower spell himself and the Boosted Charisma through his Focus. He headed out for the club in tome to arrive about a quarter of an hour early.

Club 77, Seattle, 16:45

"Drek. Wards." Hodder drops the spells he has sustained on himself. He feels naked. He approaches the doormen and broadcasts the entry code provided by Smith. He is closely checked out by the security... clearly there is MAD involved.

"Welcome, sir. Please enter, your party is waiting for you." The doorman is extremely courteous, but Hodder can tell by his physique and subtle body language that that could change in an instant.

Hodder mounts the stairs and enters the building, into a dark wood and leather fantasy of male fraternity. He opens his mind to the astral space. "Let's see what goes on inside the wards. Maybe I can raise the spells again."

Renton

Hawkeye couldn't help but wonder if she had actually sat there before, or if it was simply some image manipulation on the part of her AR... The place didn't seem familiar, so it was hard to say. She'd already discovered some things about herself, her augmentations for the most part, on the trip here, but now it was time to go through her bags properly, to see what all she had.. and of course to get her new place in order.

Each item got a few moments of recognition, going over what it was, her subconscious providing the answers that her conscious asked about the equipment, knowing the difference between the flash-bang and the smoke grenade with innate familiarity. Despite the time spent remembering each object, she was still unpacked fairly quickly, with the apartment looking as ordered as if she'd been picking out spots for her gear for ages.

She didn't know anything about Club 77, and her subconscious wasn't providing any answers, so she decided to have a quick look on the Matrix to figure out what it was about, what kind of place it was and how she might fit in there. While she let her program run the search and sort the findings and do all that other stuff it did, she took the time to take a shower. A quick affair, enough to clean herself and wash her hair, but no extra luxury in it. Her search was long done, likely done before she'd even turned on the water.

It figured that it would be a posh sort of place, most of the clothing she'd unpacked was very ordinary, very non-descript, very 'blend in anywhere' sort of things, the sort of things that would be really hard to describe to a cop after the fact her subconscious provided. But there was one outfit that looked picked out for just such a place. It was a formal sort of gown, more along the lines of a kimono actually, with colorful but not overly done patterns over the length. It is quite conservative as far as how revealing it is, with only the arms and part of the shoulders being particularly exposed apart from the slit in the gown for her leg so that she could at least move properly.

The dress leaves much to be desired in the 'gun concealment' department, but that hopefully shouldn't matter too much. Perhaps the biggest problem is in getting there. Riding her bike with the gown seemed like a bad idea, as did changing when she go there, so eventually she decided to call a cab to get her there. She set up her hair to match the dress, putting it into an elegant bun and sticking it in place with a pair of needles.

Finally the cab arrived and she got in, taking little with her besides her commlink. By the time she stepped out of the cab roughly half an hour early, she had a tasteful and rather colorful oriental dragon tattoo going down her right arm, terminating with the head on the back of her hand. The dragon started somewhere under her gown, and finding out where exactly would require its removal.

Her eyes passed over the bouncer as she was admitted in with her code, offering him a small smile as she was let in. She quickly found a quiet table to sit at, to wait, and to watch, seeing if she could pick out who might be the Ms. Johnson or the other people for this 'team'. They'll carry themselves differently her subconscious told her.

Vera checked her beauty mark for the second time with her compact. She had her hair dyed white for tonight, large open curls piled up on top of her head in a Marie Antoinette weave, slung with white pearls. Red lips accented piercing blue eyes. The black bustier pushed her body into the position of a poised ballerina, while her artfully torn black silk dress was festooned in black pearls. The black taffeta roiled from under the artful tears, revealing two legs covered in lace stockings. Vashoun Island was going to debut the dress next week, but sometimes you have to hire a thief to get the right look.

The diamonds pressed against her lightly gasping bosom and the ring on her opera gloved finger were a loan. The black silverwork diamonds and the diamond engagement ring were part of a Bvlgari line that will be auctioned off in a few weeks. A few choice pictures with the right man, meant a few thousand in her account and about five hundred thousand to the auction house.

She carefully fanned herself with her lace fan. Smiling behind it at her date for today. Mark Casperson was a rising sim-star. Already there had been two attempts by Horizon this month on having him kidnapped and placed into their stables, but until the Wuxing subsidiary he belonded to decide on his final contract, he can bask in the media limelight. Enjoy all the hip clubs and have Bubbles, the bodyguard to the stars, as his shadow. Vera always did like bubbles.

Vera smiled a bit more, sipping her champagne as they came to a stop at club 77. Mark would be deep in negotiations with an Ares rep, while she handled her own business. Later on they would hit all the fashionable clubs to make sure he was correctly media visible.

She slid out behind Mark Casperson. Her RFID got them all in without a problem. The open area was filled with mob bosses, movie stars, and fixers. She nodded to a few, smiled at some and ignored most.

Club 77, Seattle, 16:55

Hodder's astral sense was overwhelmed by the flood of emotions and desires among the crowd in the common room. Such a cacophony was rare even in a wildly partying club, but here it seemed completely out of place. Then he saw her.

A transplant from the 18th century, in the latest(?)( Hodder really didn't know) fashion, she moved through the room like a shark through a school of cod. Waves of emotion and lust flowed among the club goers, beating in and out from her like a pulse. She was on the arm of a beautiful young man, but he paled to insignificance beside her. His aura was the typical vapid hollow of the besotted and self-absorbed, but hers... so many angles and shadows and convolutions, it would take weeks to Assense her properly. A dangerous one, that. Hodder wondered how long the young man would last before she consumed him.

He took the opportunity she provided, for surely every attention mundane and magical was focussed on her, to ensorcel himself again. In the same room as one such as she, he thought he might need every ounce of willpower and personality just to survive the night.



Now, to find Ms. Johnson. "Oh God! Let it not be her!"

Saturday, April 7th. 1330 Hours. Dexter's Place, Redmond, Seattle, UCAS

“Bennie, you know real fraggin' well you can't do half the shit I can well, and the half you can, you don't do it half as good. Don't you go a thinkin' in that brain o' yours you can take my spot. Hell, I've got...”

And then he cuts me off. Of course he cuts me off. He always cuts me off; like what he has to say is a hell of a lot more important than what I've got. The kid's been raised with the sweet pats on the back of a velvet glove. Bennie gets on my fragging nerves all the time. He's got the smartmouth of a fifteen year old California valley girl. Makes me think of Emma. But just sometimes... She's a great kid. Contrary to some.

“Yea yea yea; you've got a pair of socks older than me. You've said it like a million times Dex!”

And he exagerates all the damn time. There's no way in hell I've told him that before. The fact does remain tho; I do have a pair of socks older than him. Bought them in a little corner store, in Florida, when it was still Florida, and my passport still said USA. What has the world come to.

I grunt, and I probably frown. I've never gotten used to those vid phones thingy. Sure, they were already somewhat commonplace, when I was younger. But I didn't spend all that much time in the so called civilized world. And even then, these things weren't really popular on base, or in any of the postings I had.

“You know what Bennie? Frag you Bennie!”

“Chill pops before you blow one!” he says back, chuckling like the asshole he is. Why do all assholes chuckle like that? I mean, I've never met one who actually laughed; not ever. They all have this damn chuckle.

“So, you want the job or what?”

I give a quick look around my place. It's a shit hole. I couldn't be more frank about it if my name was Frank. Had an old buddy from Caracas hook me up with the place when I came up, a few months ago. Said it was “prime real estate”. Actually, now that I think about it, he's not my buddy anymore... and if I ever get my hands on him, I'm ripping his balls out and shoving them down his throat. Never heard him laugh. I hope he already chuckled himself to death.

“Yea... I'll take the job”.

It worries me when Emma stays over. The place is nastier then some flophouses I've been in Aztlan. I need some new furniture, cause this drek really isn't cutting it out.

“If you've got a suit, you better dust it out.”

My kids say I'm a grumpy guy. My wife... Well, my ex-wife says I'm a bitter worn out burnt out asshole. God forgive me, and I love the woman, but she's got it all wrong. For starters, I don't even chuckle.

"You telling me the place's a fancy joint? Shit...”

I haven't worn a suit since Pa died... and that must've been some thirty years ago.

"Aright Pope, I gotta go. See ya”.

And he hangs up. Doesn't even let me tell him bye. Kid has no manner. None, what so ever. He might actually be better off hanging up; had gotten quite an urge to tell him to blow me. A fancy joint. Well frag me. I have know I have a pair of fancy shoes, somewhere, in a box... but there's no way in hell I've got anything to play dress up. When you spend most of life in fatigues, knee deep in jungle mudd, you don't tend to buy tuxedos. Frag me; tuxedos might not even be what's fancy now a days. For sure, things have never been going real slow in my life; but the speed at which the world turns now, it just makes me motion sick. People live fast. People consume fast. They go every where in twice as much of a hurry as they should. When I was a kid, you could sit down, write a letter on actual paper and mail it to someone. Now they've got that insta-drek going, and I here some who still moan about broadband thingamagy being too slow. Screw them kids.

I haven't shaved in months. The landlord ratios the water. If I take a 3 minute hot water shower, he gives me a bill. There are days when I'm not quite sure why I don't rip his head off. God knowns I can, and he knows all to well I have.

I kick a few boxes on the floor. The carpet's yellow. Kinda like that dog who died in the alley last week. That sort of dirty golden sick retriever color. I've always wondered who's job it is to pick names for color. I'm sure Horizon has a whole team of people doing that drek all day long, while honest hard working people pay their tabs.

I know there's a razor somewhere around here. I've spent most of my life in the jungle, fighting to defend people who never knew I existed. For the past 15 years, I haven't even really existed anywhere. Everything I've done has never happened. All the people I've killed have simply died. You can't be killed by someone who doesn't exist.

Well, here's a razor. A dull piece of metal compared to the three fifteen inch long double edge spurs I've got in my right hand. Sue always hated my arm. Ever since I came back home with it, she's hated it. She hated me. Said they had stuffed me so full of wires I wasn't a real person anymore. She'd say that, Sue, when she was angry and I was drunk. I did it for her. I did all of it for them. Every piece of me I gave up... it was so that they wouldn't have to do it. Someone had to keep the civies safe.

Last time I shaved clean.... I think the japs weren't even in NoCal.

Those damn japs.

Saturday, April 7th. 1532 Hours. Dexter's Place, Redmond, Seattle, UCAS

Turns out I do own something that could qualify as fancy dress. I found that navy polo I got when I went to Credenhill for 3 weeks of cross training. Now, those were the days. I was going to wear a shirt, of which I only own one, but the damn thing was full of wrinkles. And, do I look like the sort of guy who owns an iron? Hell no. With the polo on top tho, you can't really tell. Wish I had something that zips up.... There's just no way to carry my Deputy with a nice fitted polo. I even feel like the form fitting armor shows. After a few tries, I finally fit my backup piece in the small of my back. Not real fancy, or quick to draw, but it'll have to get the job done.

Part of me hopes I don't have to shoot anyone tonight. Blood is a bitch to get off clothes. Especially this nice navy blue polo. I wonder how many fragging names Horizon cames out for their line of blue colour wall paint. Probably twenty times the same colour, just different names. I heard once thats actually what they do with beer. Different label, same drek in the bottle.


Club 77, Renton, Seattle, 16:55So much fragging trouble to fit my backup. The guy at the door jerks his thumb towards the back. They ain't the kind of folks who like guns, I guess. They make me turn it in. Frag you prick; I once clubed a guy to death with an oar. You think I need a gun to be dangerous? I drum my fingers on the check-in counter; the fingers on my right hand. They click on the counter like the legs of a freak metal caterpillar. I don't even hear it anymore. Makes the skin of most people crawl up and off their body... which is something I still don't get. People have a ton of ware now a days; probably more than me. They just hide it. Mine's just a little more on the obvious side of thing. Obvious wasn't an option back in the days. Obvious was state of the art. Obvious was all there was.

If these folks don't like obvious, they sure as hell aren't going to like me.

I haven't done “real subtle” since Reciprocity.

Now, how the frag do they do this shit up here? They don't know me. I don't know them. And why is that bartender chuckling when I sit at the bar. I swear, if he does anything but serve me my scotch, I'm stabbing him in the eye with one of these toothpicks.

77 SW Sunset Boulevard, Club 77, Renton, Seattle, 17:00

The club looks unassuming from the outside, but you realize that you're being scrutinized the moment you step through the door. Inside, they request you check your guns and other weapons.



The place is quiet, and the aroma of cigar smoke, expensive rum, and money drifts through the air. The main room houses a very luxurious dining area. The tables are filled with many of the movers and shakers of the Seattle Shadow World. This is indeed a place where the underground community comes for privacy. The entire club has a feel of ambiance to it. Any yabo who tries to make a scene in this exclusive club would find his street reputation in the gutter by the next morning. Augmented Reality is minimal; a menu is available, but it appears that most of the club's patrons are relying on the metahuman staff for the service. There is probably a reason for that. The staff is apart of the underground community as much as the patrons.

The only public nodes that can be seen are those of the staff; most of the patrons appear to have their commlinks in hidden mode or turned off all together.

(Sample of one portion of the dining area in Club 77)

A tall thin troll approaches each of you. He first gathers Hoddler, then Hawkeye. He slaps Dexter on the back and pays for his drink, and then he finally gathers the lovely Vera, drawing her away from Casperson. The four of you are lead down a hallway towards one of the back rooms. Since most of the commlinks at Club 77 are either turned off or set to private, the music provided to the patrons is broadcasted over a good old speaker. An old Maria Mercurial song is on. It is actually a remake she did of an old song from the 1990s. It was on her first album, which still to this date holds the record for total sales in the history of music. A few years ago, the press reported that "Witness." was one of the few songs Maria performed while in her "Schoolmistress" personality. Some consider her music under this mask as some of her best.

Make me a witness
take me out
out of darkness
out of doubt

I won't weigh you down
with good intention
won't make fire out of clay
or other inventions

Will we burn in heaven
like we do down here
will the change come
while we're waiting

Everyone is waiting

And when we're done
soul searching
and we carried the weight
and died for a cause
is misery
made beautiful
right before our eyes
will mercy be revealed
or blind us where we stand

Will we burn in heaven
like we do down here
will the change come while we're waiting
everyone is waiting
-"Witness" Cirque Maria Mercurial 2048 and Sarah Mclachlan 1997.

In private rooms you catch a few glimpses of a few famous -- Mafia dons rubbing elbows with trid stars and high ranking corporate officials. The thin troll continues to lead you down a hallway, to the room at the end of it. The door is open. And standing an guard is a elf with short dark hair, and a black business suit. There is an earring dangling from his left ear. His eyes remain cool and collected. He nods as Vera, Hawkeye, and Hoddler. But when Dexter comes around the corner he gives him the major case of the "Stink Eye." The troll and the elf beckon for the four of you to enter.

Spoiler for Belloq

The room is set up like an old old-fashioned parlor out of a period trid. Two small couches and a variety of comfortable chairs are set up in the room, along with a real wooden dining table, set with a white linen tablecloth and crystal glass. A real fire in a hearth warms the room, and the flicking firelight sparkles off the crystal on the table. Sitting casually in one chair is a brown-haired human woman with fair skin and blue eyes. She's wearing a pale-blue tailored suit and some unusual jewelry, including a large dragon-shaped ring. She's sipping a glass of wine when you enter, but she smiles and stands when the hostess closes the door behind you.

The black haired elf who was guarding the doorway enters as well.

When she stands to greet you, you realize she's much taller than a normal human woman, and sher slender figure clues you in; she's an elf. She's attractive, but not in the same class as one of the hot hostess outside -- until she smiles at you. Her smiles lights up her face, transforming her from simply attractive to suddenly stunning.

"Hello," she says, greeting you all. "I'm Miss Johnson. Thank you for meeting me on such short notice. Please, sit down."

"I trust that your fixers and friends mentioned that I'm looking for some traveling companions? Yes? I've been hired by a private antiquities collector who recently lost an item from his collection. His only clue is this man, who apparently has been hired by a rival collector to find the item first. He's an elf who goes by the name of Samriel Lockwood. One or both of those names might be false."

The elf behind you turns on his Fairlight Caliban. A large projection image of Samriel broadcasts in front of you. He is a tall elf with close cropped grey. His eyes are the color of a metallic silver. His eyes are oval shaped like almonds, and his ears stretch out fair horizontally. He has a heavily-muscled physique and is slightly under 6 feet or 1.8 meters. There are a few images of him, like a movie clip. The first one shows him wearing a business suit, shaking hands with two black men. Another image shows him holding a large sword, cutting off the heads of a few Lone Star Agents. Another one shows an image of him dressed with an armored jacket, firing a Savalette Guardian from the top of a building in water filled LA. There is a set of tribal neon--tattoos curing down his entire right arm.

Miss Johnson continues.

"We've been tracking him, but it now appears he's gone to Lagos. We need to locate him quickly and trail him to this item. Now, normally I work alone, but Lagos....well it's not exactly a safe city for a single woman. If you're amendable, I'd like to hire you to accompany me as security, and as partners in search of the missing item."

She pauses, before speaking again.

"As you can imagine, the trail grows colder with every hour, so I'd like to leave as soon as possible. In the morning in fact. I'm willing to pay 3,000 nuyen per person, per day, plus a per diem of 400 nuyen with a guaranteed minimum of five days paid upfront. I'll also cover lodging in Lagos, plus the cost of travel to and from Nigeria. If we find the lost item, and you assist me in recovering it, I'll also split the 'finder's fee' with you--which would be 60,000 nuyen for the entire team."

After Miss Johnson finishes, you hear the Elf behind you scoff. That's a lot of money on the table. The forum is open for everyone to speak, gripe, ask, negotiate, charm, bull shit, etc.

Hodder [OOC: not Belloq, not Hoddler, dammit!! ] still has his astral perception open when he enters the room, especially considering what he has seen so far. As she speaks, he Assenses Ms. Johnson to learn what he can of her character, truthfulness, intentions.



Before saying anything, he figures it would be a good idea to know something. Concentrating to overcome the distraction of astral perception [OOC: Heightened Concentration, now that the Increase WIL is dropped], Hodder wracks his mind, searching his knowledge of the antiquities trade, looking for any clue to Samriel Lockwood.



EDIT: [OOC: Sooner or later I'm going to pay for those good rolls.]

"Samriel Lockwood? Never heard of him. I'll have to check the dealers later. By the looks of him, this is a guy who could be serious competition. Maybe THE competition.

"This woman is clear of magic and tech. How does she survive in such a business? Maybe a little parley will dig something up."

"3000 nuyen a day? Sounds like you think Lagos lives down to its reputation and that either we find your mark quickly, or we quickly stop being able to collect. I assume that should we accept this position you will give us some information about the item we will be helping you find?"

Strangely enough for someone in my line of work, I've never been in Africa. I've never decided where I was going, ever. Decisions were always way above my pay grade. They don't pay people like me to think anyways, we do. I ain't never been a planner. Travel's good tho. I fucking hate the rain here. I mean, it ain't like I don't like rain itself; but the shit they got here ain't rain at all. Tears fucking holes in your clothes if you stand round doing nothing too much. I bet my piss' got more water in it than the stuff that falls from the sky here. God damn mega sprawl and their polution. So yea; sitting in a room with Alice who wants to drag us to Wonderland, apparently. Hope she knows what the fuck she's doing. Giving a quick once around the room, I realize that I hope the others know what the fuck they're doing as well. Sizing everyone up in a fancy joint when they'll have to operate in the brush ain't an easy thing. Got a guy who weights less than my chromed arm. Got a girl who... what the hell is she doing here. She looks about as old as Emma. If this is what those rejuvenation commercials on the trid were about I'm going to have a hearth attack. Nigeria ain't no place for some white kid. I mean, sure, they probably have child soldiers over there, but thats out of raw necessity. Teenage girls are supposed to.... What exactly do teenage girls do these days? Fuck me if I know.

Oh yea, and there's that chick. If she's got as much brawn as her ass is nice, than I guess we're golden.

I raise my hand a bit. I've got a rotten feeling like I'm back in grade school. Only this time around, if the schoolyard bully tries to take my lunch again, I'm sending him back to his mama in tiny little parcels.

I clear my throat once.

“'scuse me mam'; who's doing the exact planning on this op? Your client? You? Us? I ain't really the picking kind. I just like knowing who's hands my ass in going to be into, if I sign up. Mam. ”

"I was hoping it would be a joint venture Mr. Pope. I am somewhat familiar with the Lagos territory, as one of my good friends is a native of the area. Yet, as I said at the beginning of this conversation. I am a companion of yours and will be traveling with you. I can arrange transportation to and from Lagos, and my employees will assist us with board, as long as it is reasonable. If the four of you choose to join me in this venture, perhaps we can discuss planning together."

She then turns to Hodder.

"Then perhaps a fixed rate would be more suitable Mr. Hodder? We are to search for the artifact and attempt to track down Samriel. For this I will offer each of you 15,000 nuyen, 5,000 of which will be up front. There will still be the possible reward, if we do recover the artifact. How does this suit everyone?"

Behind all of you. The other elf seems livid. Turning his gaze to the side.

The music is mostly lost on Hawkeye, just another background noise. Nothing in her head was clicking to the music, so she figured 'music appreciation' hadn't been something she'd ever had. The song didn't make much sense either, so it got pushed to the back of her mind. She sized up the elven guard as she approached the door, her trained eyes instinctively looking for the telltale bulge of a hidden weapon or how much armor he might be wearing under his suit. She isn't sure -why- she bothers paying it any attention, but she finds her eyes doing so of their own accord.

She returns the nod as she walks into the room, performing a similar visual examination of the woman, looking for any sign of arm or armor under her suit. She listens to the explanation, not saying anything, instead focusing her attention on the pictures of the elf, taking in everything from his height to his build, his facial structure to his eyes, his hairline, nose, mouth, anything that would allow her to recognize him again, even if under disguise. She finds herself wishing that there was a moving image of some kind so she could examine how he walks and carries himself.

Is that alot? Six times what I have now a day, so I guess so. That or I'm really broke. With the images gone and the conversation moving on, Hawkeye turns her attention more to the others she will supposedly be working with.

An old man... she didn't know why but she had a distinct distrust of him.. it wasn't the arm or the eyes... she'd seen worse I think... but something on a deeper level, maybe something to do with her past... Maybe I know him? He looked uncomfortable in this environment The armor he is wearing likely doesn't help. Form fitting?

A man, Not non-descript, but compared to the other two... Once again a seemingly inate reason to distrust the man, though it isn't nearly as strong. Do I know all these people? Still, the armor he wears under his suit is fairly obvious, that's two of her fellows wearing armor. PPP.

Finally a woman who looks completely in her element in this place. She doesn't have that sense of distrust for this woman. She isn't sure if it is something she is seeing in how they hold themselves, or why she has these strong gut reactions, just that she does. It seems surprising that someone so obviously accustomed to the high life is in a meeting like this, and perhaps even more so that she might consider going to Lagos... it seems more like she should be the one hiring others for protection.

Her attention quickly returns to the dealings "3,000 a day with a 5,000 acceptance bonus and minimum contract time of five days, along with the covered costs you mentioned." It isn't so much a negotiation offer as it is a statement of fact. That is if I understand the objectives properly. We are to protect and support you while you search for this person and the artifact he has taken. In the case of a conflict of interest between your safety and the artifact, I presume your safety should be considered the higher priority?" Her tone is fairly cool when she says this, somewhat unemotional as her training kicks in, clarifying mission objectives and parameters.

The young Asian girl's comment struck a chord deep in Hodder. "That could depend on the artifact," he thought to himself. Immediately he felt guilty about the thought. "Where did that come from?"

The old guy seemed at first glance to be the only one qualified to go into some hell-hole like Lagos. Probably lived most of his life in a few. "God knows I don't look like much. And the women... hmmm... the Asian seems odd. Not all there. Maybe one of those programmed things you see in the trids. Childlike, till she starts ripping heads off. And the babe. Totally off the wall. But probably she could eat three or four of us for lunch if we let her into our heads. Or more accurately, our gonads."

"Well, you obviously know something of us already, Ms. Johnson. So it won't come as a surprise that I am always up for a treasure hunt. My two potential teammates are correct, though, in wanting to be clear about the objectives. Do we need to do something in particular to Mr. Lockwood, or simply divest him of the artifact?"

The bodyguard spoke before Ms. Johnson could utter a word. Everyone notices a nano-tattoo on his neck, in the shape of a Phoenix . The tattoo began to radiate, throbbing, as he spoke.


"Her safety is of the utmost priority. If she dies, you will not see the rest of your payment." Turning to Hodder. "Lockwood must pay for his heinous crimes..."

Ms. Johnson Interrupted.

"Durlan. Lle tela?"

The guard nodded. Ms. Johnson continued, answering the questions, thus far.

"Recovering the artifact takes precedence. There is no specific fate which is set for Samriel. If he stands in our way, then we can either go around him or go through him. Whatever accomplishes the job."

"I'm assuming that the transportation you provide will allow us to bring our own ... tools ... along and not have to worry about inconveniences such as border security checks. That, along with the young lady's contractual terminology, 3000 nuyen per day, 5 days minimum, 5000 nuyen up front, 400 nuyen per diem, accommodations and return travel, it all looks good to me.

"If, after we all return," Hodder looks at the guard pointedly," with the item in question, Ms. Johnson, you see fit to introduce me to a first class talismonger, I would be most appreciative."

He turns and walks up to the guard, stretches himself as tall as he can be, and looks uuuppp into the face of Durlan. "Because I think she matters to you. The lady becomes a part of my team, then if she doesn't come back, I don't come back. You have my word."

"Fucking right!" he thinks to himself. "If she dies, Durlan and about ten like him won't be satisfied with cutting off just your pay!"

He turns back to the room. "How about the rest of you?"

Talon... Hawkeye blinks and shakes her head a moment after the guard's outburst, but doesn't say anything. What was that?

His word... why don't I trust that? she thinks to herself as the words echo around inside her head for a moment, shifting tone.

"Well, I'm hardly big enough to stop a bullet flying at her. That's more along his lines." she says, pointing towards Pope. Her voice is far warmer and more emotional than it was just previously, and while not quite the tone of a joke, it is on those lines. But if they're within...1.5km...fifteen hundred meters, there won't be second chances for them. The tone of a joke is missing for the second statement, but still, it has that level of feeling that you would expect in a normal person. Perhaps not quite the level of seriousness one might expect from a 16 year old, but much closer than when she was clarifying the mission objectives.

Vera reposed in her chair, her fingers playing with the diamond necklace. She grasped an empty wine glass from the table and ran her finger around its lip. It was a natural scene, the kind painted with oils centuries past, except that her companions were certainly not from history, but definitely from this century.

Hodder, the dwarf in the jacket looked like he might be fun, but only in the sense of playing off the big branwed man who if he wasn't so twisted around himself could be an interesting addition. He was scared of her, what she represented, not what she was.

The girl in the kimono behaved as if she was lost, but once she came in contact with something that involved a skill, she went back to her muscle memory. Needful of acceptance, but most likely a time bomb if blindly trusted. Autonomous learning meant that often friend and foe would be over-ridden by fight or flight responses.

"What about medical considerations, such as vaccinations? I would also wish that you extend a line of credit to one of the better medical facilities... Last I remember the WHO still had travel warnings about VITAS III among other less infectious diseases in the region."

"As for getting shot, I do not plan to, but I might be of help with medical considerations, not that I hope we are ever in that situation."

Vera stopped playing with the wine glass and placed it at the edge of the table, perfectly balanced.

"I also have a few contacts that might be willing to help us out in Lagos... For a fee of course, if you are interested?"

Vera looked past Ms Johnson at her male guard with the nano-tattoo with the last sentence, she let her necklace drop back on top of her breasts.

Durlan smirks at Hodder. "I'll hold you to that halfer." Durlan looks up, just in time to catch Vera's gesture. Taking more then a glance at her.

Ms. Johnson spoke.

"Do not mind Durlan...he can be overzealous. To answer your question Mr. Hodder. Getting into the country should not be much of a problem. One of my contacts has recommended a bush pilot who will assist us with getting past security. However, the pilot has informed me he has cargo in addition to transporting all of us. Thus, we may not have room for ALL of your tools. I suggest packing light, and bringing your most important items. We wouldn't want to draw to much attention by displaying a heavy arsenal upon arrival."

She turns her attention to Vera.

"Yes. You are correct. Vaccinations and other medical supplies should be gathered before we leave. Can I trust you to handle this endeavor? Once you find out the information, concerning what we need get back to me, and I will offer you the extent of how much I can offer for the medical supplies. Concerning your contacts in Lagos, that is entirely negotiable. I maybe interested and would be willing to pay a fee, depending on what they can offer."

Spoiler for Vera.


Ms. Johnson turns to Hawkeye and Dexter. Smiling.

"It appears Mr. Hodder and Miss Vera have approved of my conditions. How about the two of you?"

Everyone asks a question or two, which I guess is a good thing. Only idiots accept to walk into a situation blindly. So, for the time being, everyone seems to have their heads screwed on tightly. Guess its a good enough start. But then again, in my line of work, things have a tendency to go from fine to FUBAR pretty fast.
The kid passes some comment and jerks a finger towards me. Didn't her mama ever told her it ain't polite to point at people. And while we're at it; didn't she also tell her it ain't polite to assume thing about her elders?

I lean a bit forward in my seat. This fucking polo is way too tight. Feels like its going to strangle me. I pull on the neck a bit. She might joking, but I ain't in the joking mood. Especially not tonight. My head is buzzing, and I feel like some fist sized midget is trying to kick the back of my eyes out of my skull. That and my left hand is twitching a bit, again.

“Listen kid” I start “Don't go pretending you know what the fuck I do, before I start doing it, ok?”

I clear my throat a bit. Sue says I always give everyone a hard time. Well, thats too bad. Life hard. Better learn it now. I pull on the polo's collar again. I swear, these fancy meetings are going to kill me one day.

The chick finally pipes up; and what comes out of her mouth, well... thats exactly what was roaming around in my brain. Nothing fucks up your day more than getting the shit while on an op. Nothing. Beside steping on a bouncing betty. Maybe. I know I've already got most of my shot up to date, but you ain't ever too sure.

When the J looks at me, and smile, I know now is the make or break time. Yes or No. Gotta make my mind up, cause people are looking at me.

“Like the lady said” I nod my head towards the elf broad “as long as we can get all the shots we need, I'm in, Mam.”

Hawkeye smiles at Dexter disarmingly, the sort of smile that a sixteen year old should give. "I was just saying that you're bigger than me." she point at her lithe body "I wouldn't provide much cover for someone hiding behind me." She certainly seems honest enough about what she meant, but she could just be trying to cover up an insult... the shifts in how she acts make her hard to pin. Having already gone from hardened professional to child.

Turning back to Mrs. J, she nods "I already said I'd accept if I had interpreted the objectives correctly. I don't know much about Lagos though Or anywhere so how much weaponry would it be alright to show? I already know a few things I'll have to bring, but I'm curious at what point we'll start drawing too much attention." Her tone isn't quite as young sounding as it was a moment ago, but is far from the coolness of earlier, sounding perhaps like a sixteen year old that has seen a bit more of life than she really should have.

Having asked her question of Mrs. Johnson, she turns to look at Vera again, who seems to be at least somewhat informed about the area, and who might be able to answer the question.

Ms. Johnson speaks to Hawkeye. "No more then two suitcases of luggage along with one carry-on. And you bring up an excellent point Miss Yamamoto" Ms. Johnson speaks, using the young Japanese girls name for the first time. "Lagos. Or even Africa is a foreign realm to some of us. Allow me to provide you with some information on the city. Durlan?" She concludes beckoning to the guard.

Durlan takes his eyes away from the runners and nods. Punching in a few commands into his commlink the augmented reality image of a large travel guide beams into the center of the room. There is an augmented male voice which reads the following, from the travel guide for you.

<<Good evening.

Today is Saturday April 7th, 2072.
Today's weather in Lagos: 34 Deg C (Daytime High) with heavy sustained winds.
Guide map of the area surrounding Lagos.

Population of Lagos: 20 million, maybe more,
maybe less
Area: 3,500 square kilometers, give or take a
few hundred more (lagoons cover about 25
percent of the total area)
Predominate Tribes: Yoruba (35%), Igbo (15%),
Awori (5%), Egun (5%)
Metatypes:
Human: 60%
Ork: 20%
Dwarf: 8%
Elf: 5%
Troll: 2%
Other: 5%
Currency Exchange Rate: 20 Naira (coinage) to 1 nuyen.

Lagos is a feral city on the coast of West Africa. The city itself is home to 10-20 million people, most of whom live in conditions that make the Redmond Barrens look luxurious. Immensely powerful and richer warlords rule the city from the secure enclave in Lagos Island. Corporate investment in the city is high, since it is the primary outlet for all of the oil pumped in the Nigeria delta and serves as a no-hold-barred playground for everything from cheap consumer goods to consumer black-market bioweapons. Almost any goods with value can be bought and sold in Lagos, be it weapons, metahumans, or technology. With no police force (Or city wide infrastructure), the rich and powerful write their own rules--and the corporations enjoying having no rules at all.

The city is built around large, shallow lagoons of brackish polluted water. About a quarter of the sprawl area is actually water, and much of the city is built upon a swamp. During the rainy season, streets become waterways and entire neighborhoods are flooded. Homes built over the swamps and lagoons balance precariously on stilts, while wooden or plastic slats connect homes. In the drier areas of the city, homes are often build on cinder blocks, and multi-story apartments complexes are common in the dense slums. Everywhere, people collect acidic rainwater on rooftops and in barrels, and many families have rooftop 'gardens' of ediable fungi and hardy plants. The water from the lagoon, rivers, and streams is too polluted with toxic chemicals and metahuman waste to be drinkable (in fact, just falling into the water can cause a metahuman to become seriously ill). Less than one percent of the population has access to clean water or plumbing, thus sterilized bags of water are common at markets and roadside vendors. Shamans with sterilize spell are such valued commodities that gangs and neighborhoods have been known to go to war to acquire one.

Food is another danger; fish from the lagoons can be toxic, and vegetables and fruit are often washed in polluted water. Food-borne illness is rampart, especially amongst visitors. There are a few soy or soy based products. Devil rats are also a staple.

In December and February, the strong Harmattan winds blows from the Sahara, bringing a warm, dry period and coating everything in the city with a fine, red dust. There is little to no rain during this time, and drinkable water becomes scarce.

There are estimates that there are over 100 different languages spoken in Lagos. Many residents speak a Lagos-specific type of city speak, which combines several tribal languages with English and Frech. Other major languages are Yoruba and Igbo. While Horizon's Life-line linguasoft service has Yoruba linguasofts available, there are no linguasofts on the market for the unique Lagosian city speak, Igbo, or any of the other tribal languages. However between, Yoruba, English, and French, most foreigners can make themselves understood, as long as they remember not to speak Yoruba to an Igbo, unless they're spoiling for a fight.

Common Prices For Gear and Services in Lagos.

Ak-97 - 1,000 Naira
Ares Predator - 3,500 Naira
Regular Ammo (10) - 200 Naira
Hotel (Porto Novo) 1,000 Naira
Hotel (Lagos Island) 1,000 nuyen, plus (Naira not accepted)

Cab ride (1 hour) - 100 Naira
Roadside Vendor Breakfast/Lunch - 5-10 Naira
Dinner (Buka) - 20 Naira
Dinner (Nice restaurant) - 200 Plus Naira

-End Transmission. Thank you.>>

Looking around at everyone. Miss Johnson seems pleased.

"To get us to Africa, I've arranged a private flight from here to Cairo, and then to Accra -- the Capital of Asante, and the closest real airport to Lagos. That way we don't have to deal with any airport security or other travel issues. From there we meet our bush pilot, who will take us to Lagos. Our flight leaves from the Seattle -Tacoma International Airport tomorrow at 0500 hours. I shall be around this club for about another hour or two, and will help anyone with questions, concerns, or help with other traveling details."


[The next time everyone checks their bank accounts, they will find it 5,000 nuyen heavier.]

I must've made some sort of sound when I raised my brow, cause I got a few looks. Well screw me over. 0500. Thats a short 12 hours from this very instant. Not a whole lot of time to prep up, before its boots off the ground. Better get things moving on now. The commlink comes off from my waist as I start thumbing through the menus.“Wheels off in 12 hours. Thats real short. We can share stories on the flight. Lets introduce each other real fuckin' quick. Names and OS."

The chromed fingers of my right hand find the commlink's stylet. The thing might look bulky, but it works with the precision of a swiss clock.

“I'm Dexter. Dexter Pope. Y'all can call me Dex, Dexter, Pope, or Sir, if you fancy it. I've got about 30 years of soldering behind me, with more than half of those in Spec Ops, mostly Maritime and Jungle ops. I know and can operate pretty much every single weapon system that exists. That being said,” I tap the plastic pen on the commlink's screen “once y'all made up your mind, I'm gonna need your weapon kit list. With ammo count.”

Hodder chuckles. "Fancy that. An AK-97 costs 50 nuyen. And a Predator like mine costs almost four times as much. 'Oh, look. The little man carries an expensive, easy to hide weapon. Let's go say hello to the little tourist.'

"Where do we go at the airpor.... ah, thank you, Durlan. You're a good man."

Hodder seems in excellent spirits.(Hah. I made a funny!) Almost as if he were going off on an adventure.

"Well, Dexter, I'm glad to see the military man is taking charge of logistics. I feel better already. My armament consists of one Ares Predator IV and 90 rounds of ammunition. That's it. Shouldn't be any problem, it appears, to get more ammo in Lagos. Oh, and I have a few spells and spirits on my side, too, but I can fill you in on those details during the flights.

"Speaking of spirits, I have some preparation to do before we set out, so if it doesn't seem too rude, I would like to take my leave of you all and go home to pack and bind. Here's a secure commcode by which to contact me if necessary. I may be in the middle of a binding ritual, so please be patient for my response. I look forward to a very profitable venture. And some heady planning on the flight. Ms. Johnson, I am particularly eager to learn all about this artifact we will recover from the dastardly thief.

"See you at the airport!"

Hodder will wait to see if there is more conversation involving him, then head out. He winks at Durlan and gives him a thumbs up sign on the way out.

Vera starts playing with the necklace again, seeing if she can get a rise from anyone else.

"Vaccinations for the group will cost 400 nuyen each, which if I am correct..." she looks idly around the room "is 2000 nuyen. A good emergency pack will cost 1000 nuyen, including medicines for the more common diseases, not to mention the short notice. Some of the stuff, like a portable defiblirator you can't find at your local stuffer shack."

She said the the last two words, in a manner a humanis policlubber might say trog.

"As for Lagos, just because you can carry weapons, does not mean you should. It's a common etiquette issue, like in Redmond - I guess, although perhaps Mr Pope would tell us more about that. Perhaps I should ask instead, is there anything more I should know?"

Hawkeye considers Pope for several moments Seems to have the best interests in mind It makes for a smoother mission And he hasn't done anything But can I trust him? She certainly seems to be staring at him, sizing him up. Her eyes aren't on his arm, but on his face, thoughtful Some people can be trusted, I told myself that.

Not him though"I've got some guns, ammo, and other things." She gives a mischievous grin and winks at Pope. "I have research to do and things to gather. I'll see you on the tarmac." And with seemingly little desire to socialize further, she moves to leave, though she does give Vera a look before she goes. What kind of look is hard to say, seemingly just curiosity at why she keeps playing with her necklace, as that is where her eyes move after a moment.

As a parting shot once she has opened the door (Presuming it is openable) "And if you're going to wear armor under your clothing, you should at least get something that hides it better." She waves, her voice almost playful at that last comment.

We've been here for about 10 minutes, and already, everyone's ready to pack their shit up and leave. The question is; are these people so good at what they do, that they already know all they have to? Or are they green enough to think everything will go as they please? Somehow, I can't make my mind up if its professionalism, or recklessness.“Guns, ammo and others things...” I repeat, not really sure if I heard her correctly. I put my commlink away. This kid is really starting to get on my nerves. I ain't the kind of guy who gets along with everyone, especially people from a whole other generation. If this is the new sense of humour kids have these days, I'm really behind. The halfer looks reliable enough. The chick seems in control. The kind, on the other hand, seems like she just wandered in here with no clue as the what's going on.

She's almost at the door when I decide to say something. I was sorta waiting up for someone else to call her drek. Apparently, no one has the balls, or no one cares.

“Hoi kid; you for real? I don't give a fuck” I look towards Miss J, shrugging some sort of apology for my language “if you've got guns and bullets. I wanna know what kind you're planning on packing How far you can engage targets. I wanna know now cause by the looks of things, I'll be the main gun on this op, and I need to know what you've got covered.”

I get up from my chair. Sitting down like this, just talking, makes my skin crawl. I can feel my jacked up nervous system twitching here and there.

“Mac there”, I nod toward the dwarf “was clear enough. I know what his deal is, and what he'll bring to the table. Lady over there,” I nod toward the elf “well... she ain't been crystal clear yet but we got a general idea. And just by the way she carries herself, I ain't worried one bit. You, on the other hand, already seem like a big fucking overconfident liability. Overconfident assholes are usually the first one to get shot in the field.”

It would appear some conversation of note occurs before Hodder leaves. As Hawkeye approaches the door, Hodder steps to the door as if to open it for her, but holds it shut a moment. This is a critical stage, he figures, in the gelling of the team. Discord now may take a long time to overcome, time they don't have. He summons his most charismatic demeanor. [OOC: CHA 7, Influence Group 1, if it matters]

"It may be difficult for us to be completely open with each other at this early stage. God knows openness is not a survival trait in much of this world. But each of us brings talents to this mission, else we would not have been suggested and called. Dexter looks like a man who has spent years keeping his people alive by keeping track of the options. That's what he is doing now, and we may appreciate it mightily in the next few days. Young one, please consider that before you judge. There is more danger in keeping him uninformed than there is in making some of your capabilities known to him.

"And Dexter, you too played your cards close to your chest earlier. It's the nature of our ... profession ... that we are thrust together with people we don't know, to do a job. We have to cooperate, or we may lose more than our profit. It is only logical that we prepare ourselves as a team, not as disparate and conflicting individuals."

Then Hodder steps back from the door and looks at the two of them, with a raised eyebrow.

She doesn't trust either of the men, and so isn't particularly pleased at one of them holding the door shut for her. "Didn't I already say my engagement range is up to fifteen hundred meters? Do I need to spell out what sort of weapon I might use at that range?" She sounds angry Talon wouldn't have missed that Talon? She puts a hand to her forehead and rubs it a bit, shaking her head slightly.

She isn't entirely sure herself why she is fighting the point so much. It isn't as though they won't find out tomorrow anyway. All she knows is that her head is starting to hurt. Without realizing it, she slips into Japanese when she next speaks.

Without waiting for a response, or even realizing that she may not have been understood, she moves quickly out of the room, her head buzzing. She'd felt oddly trapped in those last moments... she could have defended herself if she had needed to, likely able to incapacitate the two men long enough for her to get out of there. And Talon would have helped. She doesn't bother spending any more time in the club, wanting to put distance between her and the men just in case they decide to try and come after her, a flight response having been triggered in her. Before long she is in a cab, heading towards the mall. There are some things she needs to pick up if she is going on this trip. Food and water among other things based on that travel guide.

Hodder chuckles as the girl blows by him, a conflict of emotions swirling around her in the astral. "Hmmm... considering whether to beat the drek out of me or not? Clearly, she believes she could do it. God help us all during that time of the month!. But what was that odd colouration when she held her forehead? I'll have to watch her for it again."

"Dexter, I don't know if you understand Japanese, but she has a rifle with eight clips, a shotgun with six and a holdout with two. Also grenades... flash-bang, flash-pak and smoke." No need to translate the rest. "I'm off then, myself. Bye."

vera waited until the scene blew over, she continued to watch as the door closed behind Hodder as well.

"I'll see you Mr Pope at SeaTac, with the necessary medical equipment, and as for weapons. I usually don't carry any. Nothing you would find on a scanner anyway."

"Now if you'll excuse me, I think Durlan and I have some unfinished business, yes?"

Vera looked away from Mr Pope and arched an eyebrow at Durlan.

Sitting at her table. Ms. Johnson watched the scene unfold before her. The women tapped her finger lightly on the table she was leaning on. After Hodder and Hawkeye, left the room. She follows suit. Leaving the room from a side exit.

An amused face permeated from Durlan. He chuckled at the tension. Yes he chuckled. But a quick glare from Dexter brought back the old stink eye.

The hearth inside the room was still burning. From inside the room, you could not hear the nose from anywhere else in the club. Meaning the nose generator somewhere in this den was doing it's job.

Durlan's attention turned towards Vera as if she was the only one in the room. His smile and eyes were full of lust.

"Yes. Please excuse us Mr. Pope. I would like to have a private meeting with Lady Vera." Durlan spoke to Dexter, keeping his eyes on Vera.

He then addressed her.

"Yes we do. I would like to compare notes with you on the upcoming mission. And being a patron of your employer, perhaps I should experience some of your talents myself."

Once at the mall, it dosen't take Hawkeye long to purchase a bit of camping gear. A tent, a sleeping bag, a few days rations and some water purification tablets. She'd like to get some smart pouches to go with her pack, but the camping store in the mall doesn't have any, and she doesn't have the time to go searching around for them.

Paying for the things as Sakura Yamamoto she once again takes a cab back to her apartment, where she quickly but carefully begins packing her things. Most of her gear goes into a backpack, a smart pack actually, fitted to her perfectly to make carrying the load inside it that much easier. Her new gear all get a good running over with a tag eraser to make sure there aren't any annoying RFID tags that she doesn't want showing up.

Ms. J may have said that they'd be staying in hotels, but it was always good to be safe, and so the water purification tablets, a week's worth of rations, the tent, and a number of other miscellaneous items went in the pack, just to be safe. The sleeping bag, along with the rest of the gear she'd be taking with her back into her suitcase. With less clothing to take on something like this, and a few other unneeded items, it only took one of the cases instead of both.

All that done, she changes out of her fancy dress, brushes her teeth, and goes to bed. She may not get a full night's sleep, but she should get more than enough to be able to get on the airplane and stay awake on there. She doesn't think it'd be a good idea to sleep with those men around, besides, she still has more to learn.

Sunday, April 8th. 0400-0500 Hours. Seattle, UCAS.
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.


It's raining. A light drizzle. The rain is actually quiet cool and refreshing refreshing, like the other side of your pillow. Ms. Johnson has provided the five of you the information about your departure flight. All of the security measures have been taken care of. No annoying astral scans, no need for MADs or other informal hindrances. Once each of you arrives at the airport, you were given instructions to send a message to Ms. Johnson's commlink, notifying her that you have arrived.

The hangar that Ms. Johnson told everyone to meet at is in the Northwest corner of the airfield, around the other private airfields. There is a security checkpoint which has be passed through. Each one of you was given a RFID tag which allows you to pass. This private portion of the airport has a parking lot that has only a few cars stationed there. There is also a few set of vans as well.

[Airstrip]

Ahead there is a set of three hangars that share a loading area. It is there where Ms. Johnson and her plane are awaiting the each of you. When you individually arrive, you see Ms. Johnson dressed in Safari gear. Her hair is tied in a ponytail, and she seems to be coordinating a few other metahumans in loading the GulfStream Luxe V Executive Jet (Page 113 Arsenal) it appears all of you will be using to travel to Cairo. The jet is a beauty. Sleek black in color. Ms. Johnson is speaking to a 4 foot tall dwarf with a mustache and is balding with black hair on the sides. You presume he is the pilot because of the Control Rig mounted in his hands.

There is also a Hermes Stepvan which is carrying the medical supplies, Vera had picked out for the trip. The G-5 is the only air shuttle occupying the airstrip.

Sunday, April 8th. 0400-0500 Hours. Seattle, UCAS.
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

Public transportation gets Hodder to the private area of the airport. The RFID get him through the checkpoint no problem, though he gets an odd look for his sunglasses. It's still dark outside and raining, and he's not even a brother.

Dressed in a jumpsuit and work boots, he could almost pass for airport staff. Except for the three bags he carries that together look as big as he is. Yet he saunters across the tarmac towards the plane as if he were strolling through the park. Scoping the loading procedure, he drops his two large packs with the material to be loaded, and hangs on to the third pack. Then he wanders over to Ms. Johnson. He places the third pack gingerly on the ground beside him, and smiles at Ms. Johnson and the pilot. There seems to be a breeze around him.

"Morning, boss. Looks like another beautiful day in paradise." He takes off and stows the sunglasses, and their purpose becomes clear. His eyes are shot through with flashes of sky blue and electric sparks. "Anything I can do?"

Sunday, April 8th. 0400-0500 Hours. Seattle, UCAS.
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

Vera giggles in the back seat of a Honda 3240, as she drinks Kristall from the bottle between making out with Mark Casperson. Numerous aerial micrdones are following them around as they rush along the tarmac to the hangar of a plane that is just taxing into landing.

The plane opens its doors and a raven haired french woman walks out. She is shocked as Marc and his date stumble out of the convertible giggling like crazies.

"Iz thees wai I am engaged to yeh? Yeh are such a peeg Maark."

"This? This is nothing Vivianne, this is but a triffle. Come on darling talk to me." Marc stumbles with the bottle in his hand as the woman marched back into the jet followed by the soon to be former boyfriend. The door closed behind them.

Vera drunkenly reposes on the side of the sports car as a dozen newscasts take her video. Some use somatic sim recordings to add texture to the images. Already the jewels around her neck are being called the widow maker and several thousand Matrix agents have started up guerilla marketing as well as the mainstream adverts on this exceptional find soon to be available from a prestigious auction house. Vashoun Island also announces its next line of clothing as well, focused on 1890s hauteculture lingerie.

Her clothes that were once on during the interview now look well used and mauled, revealing tanatalizingly what she wears underneath. As she languishes on the back seat, a GMC Bulldog van comes. Men in dark buttoned suits and white gloves remove her necklace and ring. An elderly dwarf carefully studies the jewellery before placing them in an ornate Bulgari case and into a safe at the back of the van.

The name of the auction house minutes before obscure except for a single name tag, which they all focused on. Charterhouse.

The cameras continue to follow the van as it speeds away into the early airport dawn.

Vera is shaken ruefully awake by Bubbles and carefully leaves the scene. She picks up several plastic tax-free bags from the back of the car and wobbles her way to the plane. Vera arrives with moused up hair, her dress holding to her body by a few threads, and there is a definite smell of very expensive champagne and sex on her.

"Hi boss." She hiccups which causes a general fit of the giggles.

The beeping of my commlink wakes me up. I yawn, stretch, and sit up, blinking the sleep from my eyes. It wasn't quite enough, not when my schedule was already off from just having flown in from Japan. At least Africa was closer to Japan, hopefully I'll be able to sleep right after landing and catch up. There was that ad in the taxi, about the sleep regulators. One of those might be handy if I keep having to jump around like this. Something to look into when I get back, or get somewhere.

A hot shower would be nice... too bad the water coming out of the tap this morning can be considered lukewarm at best. Still, the cooler water is a bit more bracing, helps me wake up more. After drying off, combing out my hair and placing it into a simple shape, the hair about 2/3rds of the way down clipped to near the back of my head, I had to pick out what to wear.

Cham Besides being easy to hide in, the Chameleon armor can easily change to look like clothing. The legs change to 'show' my own legs, the arms as well. A few more tweaks and it looks like a pair of jean shorts and a black t-shirt with a red 'flame' kanji on it. For a bit of added flare I do a bit more work to get the kanji to wave and flicker some, like a flame itself, though still easy enough to read.

I could have gone in normal clothing, kept the armor in a case until later, but after last time, I figured it was better to be safer. I'd be taking more than a holdout with me on the plane as well. I didn't figure on firing while we were flying, but still, best not sorry.

After checking my backpack and suitcase one last time, and after going over the rest of the apartment to make sure there wasn't anything important I'd forgotten, I head out to catch another cab. I could have taken my own bike, but didn't want to leave it at the airport, or trust the autopilot to make its way back here.

It was a good thing I'd gotten that tag before I'd left, or I'd have set off those scanners without any real trouble. I'm about half an hour early for takeoff, but I figured it would be a good idea to get my gear properly stored and see if I couldn't find a secluded seat.

"Ohiyoo gozaimasu" I greeted Ms. J, not really feeling like remembering my English at the moment. The words weren't coming to me as easily this morning as they had yesterday. Yesterday I'd spoken like a perfect native, and hadn't had any problems with the words. Perhaps an after affect of losing my memory, some things come and go still.

When you board the sleek black jet through the port side air-stair, you turn right towards the main cabin which is a spacious nineteen meters long and just under three meters wide. The appointments are plush and sinfully inviting with a selection of swiveling captains chairs and couches, all adorned in what smells like genuine leather. On the foward bulkhead is a large very hi-end trideo display. Seated in the first seat your eyes fall across as your eyes sweep the cabin is a striking young human woman. She has long blonde hair put up in an elaborately coifed French twist threaded with a black silk ribbon and whose face displays fine Slavic features. You would guess her to be about sixteen years old, but the way she's seated with her tight black leather-gloved hands laying lightly on the arms of her chair and her sleek legs crossed in what should have been a demure fashion seems to have placed her seal of personal possession on the entire aircraft.

Her tasteful makeup highlights and defines her delicate features perfectly, a dusting of color crossing her cheekbones, dark gray emphasizing her deep blue eyes and setting off her lips with a glossy red hue. She's dressed in a closely tailored black leather skirt suit which emphasizes her feminine curves and barely covers the tops of her sheer silky smoke colored stockings with their pencil-thin ruler-straight seams up the back. Beneath the open jacket you can see the black lace over blood red leather of a very high end corset which sets off the soft mounds of pale flesh above it to perfection. Her feet are adorned in fiendishly expensive and stylish 12cm stiletto heel pumps whose black leather is polished to such an extent that the overhead cabin lights glint across their surface as her raised foot bobs slowly and enticingly in contrast to the bright red contrasting soles. Her face is completely calm and impassive as her eyes take each of you in head to toe as your board the aircraft and enter the cabin.

Sunday, April 8th. 0400-0445 Hours. Seattle, UCAS.
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

Ms. Johnson greets Dartha for the first time. She was a rather mysterious women who was recruited around the same time as the other runners. Hearing the tales of the horrid background counts in the astral space of Lagos, it was advised to Ms. Johnson that she recruit some magical assistance. Dartha came highly recommended. Her magical talent was supposed to be very high, but she was a relative unknown in the Shadows that Ms. Johnson walked. Ms. Johnson greeted Dartha when she arrived.

"Hello. Feel free to leave your luggage here for our pilot and flight crew to handle. And enter the aircraft. We shall leave around the designated time."

Mr. Hodder was the next to arrive. He walks up rather casually and surveys the scene.

"Morning, boss. Looks like another beautiful day in paradise." He takes off and stows the sunglasses, and their purpose becomes clear. His eyes are shot through with flashes of sky blue and electric sparks. "Anything I can do?"

Ms. Johnson smiled. "Yes. First you can simply call me Jane. Second. If you are able to assist Digits with loading the plane with the vaccinations and med-kits Vera ordered for us, that would be of great assistance."

A few minutes later, about a half an hour before 5AM, the young Japanese girl walks onto the airfield. Her cab had dropped her off in the parking lot just outside. Ms. Johnson almost did not detect her approach. When she turned around, Ms. Johnson was a little startled. But then quickly composed herself. And smiled at the girl.

"Ohiyoo gozaimasu." She said with a formal bow, one that showed she was very familiar with Japanese etiquette. "Mr. Hodder and your other teammate are already here. Feel free to leave your luggage my associates, and take any items you would like to on the plane."

About ten minutes later a sports car zooms onto the tarmac. Drifting into position, leaving the smell of burnt rubber and smoke in it's trail. The car was followed by a few microdrone cameras. Ms. Johnson begins to wave them off, motioning for the ground crew and Digits, the dwarf pilot.

"Hey! What is going on?! Get those things out of here?"


Out steps Vera. Looking as if she had been partying and socializing for the past six hours. How on Earth was she able to obtain the medkits and vaccinations for the team? She was traveling light. Very light. Only a few bags, probably with designer cloths of some type. The van comes very quickly, and picks up Vera's items before speeding off. Ms. Johnson was not pleased, but could not help but think if this was a ruse of front of the doctor's to throw the rest of us off guard or underestimate her. The ground crew and Digits found the scene amusing and entertaining.


"Hi boss." She hiccups which causes a general fit of the giggles.

"Get on the plane." She says with a glare.

Ms. Johnson looks at the ground crew. They finish off loading all of the items onto the plane. She gets on the commlink and sends a vocal chat to Dartha, Hodder, Vera, and Hawkeye. Setting up a visual and audio communications network amongst all of their commlinks.

"Hello everyone. This is Dartha, a last minute addition to the party. We are simply waiting for Mr. Pope, and then we shall depart."

With the others still arriving, Hodder helping load the bags, now would seem to be a good time to find a seat, I'll get the first choice. I stick around just long enough to make sure my suitcase isn't going to be left behind before climbing the steps into the small private jet.

Having expected it to be empty I was surprised to see someone sitting in one of the jet's seats already. She was hard to miss, sitting in the front seat, sitting like she owned the jet. She isn't dressed like she was about to go on a mission, more like a night on the town... Not that I exactly look like I'm about to head off to a mission either, except maybe the backpack.

Is she...? My hand reaches back to my pack, my fingers at the zipper which had been left just slightly parted to make it easier to reach into while wearing. Before my fingers do more than alight on the zipper however, I stop and blink, giving my head a small shake. I adjust my hand to instead reach for the scruff of the pack, sliding it off my shoulders in one easy motion.

”Ohiyaoo Gozaimasu” I greet the girl, my voice just managing to not shake. She can't be, because they're dead... we made sure... and so are they... But so am I Why did I just try reaching for my gun? Giving the girl a simple nod I take a breath to calm myself, knowing I must have looked very odd just then, before walking to the back of the plane and taking one of the seats.

Calm. She isn't. She's fine. Calmness starts to return, but as what seems to be a nervous habit I being pulling the pieces of my rifle from my pack and assembling them. Oddly it seems to help me relax. Maybe the action, maybe the familiarity... or maybe the safety affording by having a powerful weapon on hand.

Once the weapon is assembled a few seconds later, I rest it across my lap, looking at the back of the girl's chair. She must be alright, I don't know why I was so freaked out at first.. maybe I thought she was someone else? That must be it. After a while I pull out my commlink and begin looking through it again... rifle still nestled in my lap.

Vera looked over the young child in her prom dress and decided that if she wanted to look so much that she owned the plane fair enough. She suppressed a small giggle as she watched quietly as the two 16 year olds squared off against each other.

The colour on each others face changed, and the Japanese went from upset to being so sure of something and then back again to confusion. A hundred thousand synapses colliding with muscle memories. She would have to have a chat with her when they were alone. Her software measures over 10,000 signals and temperature variations and she knew every one of them.

She giggled a bit more loudly than before stumbled and sat in across from the girl, Dartha, "Excuse me, do you know where the glasses are?"

She pulled out a bottle of 18 year old Labroaigh from one of her bags, nearly slipping out of her dress.

"Ohiyaoo Gozaimasu, Yamamoto-Chan," replies Dartha to the young woman who just boarded the plane, holding the spell to blast the other woman's aura with power if she so much as twitched to bring her hand back out of her backpack, executing a slight but still completely correct bow of one being respectful but not accepting the other's superiority without getting up from the seat.

"Fascinating" she thinks to herself as she relaxes internally "She seemed really tense there for a minute. I wonder what she was reaching for in the backpack, and what about me got her back up so quickly? Maybe this will turn out to be interesting after all."

Then another woman makes her way on board; Dartha would characterize the movement as "stumbled" except the woman executes it in a pair of stilettos, so something must be up. When the woman giggles at her and asks about glasses, she magically supresses the desire to arch an eyebrow.

"The galley is in the back of the aircraft" she says in completely accentless English. "I am certain you will find what you need there, though since we're all friends here, you could just enjoy that straight from the bottle, if that is easier" she delivers with a completely straight face and no inflection whatsoever.

"OK, this just went from 'Interesting' to 'Oops', and that's not a good thing. Drek, is the woman a Threat, a Challenge or a Fool?" she thinks to herself darkly.

She looked at the woman. Several warning notes coming across her eyes. Most likely something magical, but that was a given in some ways. She was 16 once and she had been so sure of herself then as was the girl.

"Shh, there is no need to disrespect a nice Labroaigh, it's not cheap turkey synthohol, like your dad used to swill. Now be a darling and bring a glass please."

she put the bags on the floor and reposed against the two facing seats, her back resting lightly against the wall.

Dartha remains completely calm and composed outwardly, successfully repressing the desire to kill the slitch for even mentioning her bastard father.

"It was not my intent to offer insult to the vintage."

She remains however pointedly seated.

Vera reads the emotions. The poise. the lack of movement, the minute narrowing of the eyes, the dilation of the pupils. The image she had of herself as the queen of this castle was so absolute that she could not afford to have it swayed or tipped.

Vera reposes there for a while, before getting up and heading to the galley for a glass. She puts a few pieces of ice into the glass and walks back, as she passes the Japanese girl she hands her a soft drink from the cooler.
She stumbles for a second and leans against Dartha's chair, swinging it out alignment.

Vera went back to reposing while Dartha's chair was angled to face the wall. She cracked the seal and poured herself a finger, leaning against the wall as she savoured the whisky and gave the Japanese girl a mock salute before pressing cold crystal glass against her forehead.

I continue to look at my commlink as the lady and girl speak, but my ears prick as I pick up their conversation curious to learn more about both of them. After Vera gets her glass of ice, she walks out of the back and gives me a drink on the way to her seat. I accept it, trying to not look too confused at the kind gesture Poison?

Without really thinking about it particularly, I open the drink she handed me and take a gulp of the liquid. The taste seems almost too sweet, but I smile at Vera when she gives me that salute anyway, it was a nice gesture. Did she bump the chair on purpose? I guess she is drunk, so maybe not.

Of course, when I finally do get there, I'm fucking late. Ain't nothing makes a worst impression than a soldier being late on roll call. But then again, I've got to fall back on the fact I've been in this stinking urban jungle for shy of two weeks. Like I'm gonna get wheels in 2 weeks time when I need to shell out almost everything I have in child support. That and that god damn rat nest I'm living out of. I hate rats. I still have bad dreams and wake up with the shake every night. And its always those fucking rats, with their little beedy eyes, sharp teeth and scrawny furry skin like tails. Gnawing at me. I sleep with a 12 gauge loaded with salt, next to my bed, in case one of those bastards creeps hiw way in my room. I bet rats chuckle.

I walk from the curb side where the cab left me, all the way to the hangar. Not a bad warm up for a long day of sitting doing absolutely fuckall. I've never been the big airborn kind. I ain't got an itch against it; it's just not my prefered way of locomotion. I'm more of a water guy. Boating, fishing, swimming, sun bathing. You can't do shit in the air beside drop to the earth like a fucking rock on a hurry. The moment any sort of aircraft gets airborn, the only thing it wants to do is come down crashing to kill you. When you think about it, flying ain't natural, at least for us human folks. You put a guy in water, he'll float, to some extend. You put a child in water, his first instinct will be to try to swim. You throw a guy off a building, all he'll do is fucking scream all the way down; not fly. As my Adidas made GSG9 boots echo in the hangar, I start to wish I had brought a parachute. Hope for the best, plan for the worst. Too bad I ain't got one.

The place's mostly empty, if you ain't counting the sleek jet. At least, thats what people whould say about it. I personally think it looks like a big manhood compensator. Like a corvet, but with wings. Give me a C-130 over one of those flying dicks any day. I shift my smart pack on my shoulders. I ain't half as heavy as I was expecting it to be... but I figured with the crew we had, I had better be able to move fast. After all, this gig is supposed to be semi urban, and not a jungle LLRP. Not that I would mind. Pretty sure the mosquitos would eat that jap kid up.

As the lighting conditions shift around me, my eyes kick into gear to compensate. Sure, colors aren't as vivid, but I get to see better, farther and sharper than any living thing on this planet. Thank you CASMC!

Getting closer to the plan, Hodder and some other dwarf, maybe a buddy of his, sees me. He smiles and gives me a nod of recognition, which I return. The nod, not the smile. I mean, I don't really even know the guy yet. But that ain't a reason to be impolite. He seems like a sturdy little fella. I guess that'll be decided when the shit hits the fan. If it ever does.

I go way round the plane, where they seem to be loading the luggage, and stuff. It feels half way odd not to bring my gear with me inside the aircraft. I mean, I've always brought my stuff with me. Reluctantly, I put the duffle with my clothes, my backpack, and the large high impact casing for my rifle in the cargo bay. Fuck me, I feel naked. All I've got on me are the thick layer from my ballistic jacket, a shoulder rig with my revolver, a knife in my boot, and a single flashbang in my jacket's pocket. Sure, to most people, that a shitload of firepower to bring unboard a plan. A few years back, I might have agreed. But I'd rather have too much firepower, than not enough. The revolver's loaded with frangible rounds, so if I do have to fire at anything, I won't depressurize the plan. Force of habit, I've also got a single tracker round in the cylinder. You never know when it might come in handy. Had an NCO, back in Amazonia, who shot one of our guys in the leg when he got captured. Got him good with a tracker round. A day later, we pulled him out of some straw made latrine. Sure, he lost his leg. Last time I saw him, he enjoyed his new one so much, he never complained. Good guy. The flash's good for a ton of thing. Never leave the house without one. Knife's as a much a tool as a last resort. In the close proximity of a plane, a knife also tend to be much quicker than a gun. I ain't real nervous about them runners. If one of them wanted to fuck us over, he probably wouldn't do it now. But I don't know the air crew. Or anyone else we'll meet on the way to the Op site. So yea; I'm on my toes ever since I woke up this morning. I didn't get this old by cutting the corners of my cautiousness.

As I round by toward the stairs, Hodder seems to finish whatever he was doing. Getting next to him, I give him a slight slap on the back, with my meat hand, of course. Lots of people are bothered when I touch them with the chrome. Not sure why. I ain't flesh and bones, but its my hand alright.

"Morning Mac. I sure as fucking hope they ain't showing some chick flick... cause this is going to turn into a long flight."

I laugh a bit. I think I'm a pretty funny guy. My daughters both think I'm horrible. Kids.

When I finally set foot on the plane, my jaw feels like dropping to my heels. You have to be fucking shitting me. Another kid? At first, I thought it was me getting old; that everyone started to look like kids. After throwing a somewhat "you have to be kidding" look at Hodder, I rub the back of my neck and just hurry the fuck up to sit down. Another kid. Where the hell did Miss J get those people? Kids. Sure thing, talent doesn't know any age. But come on! How much field experience can teenagers have? By the looks of the new kid, I was sending azzies back to their mamas when her grand parents were dating.

I sigh and rub my forehead.
Seriously; if this is how the game is statrting to be played, its a sure sign I have to get the hell out.
Even thinking about it sounds cliche, but I have to: I'm getting way too old for this shit.

I take my jacket off, folding it in half so I can sit on it. Old habits die hard. The big Cavalier Deputy revolver dangles from its shoulder rig. I grab a pack of used playing cards from my pocket.

Vera looks on as Pope looks at the kids with an obvious set of disdain.

"Excuse me, Mr Hodder? Mr Pope? Can you deal me into the game? I can bring a bit of a sparkle to the game and a bit of liquid scottish pride."

She grins and leans over, nearly spilling from her dress and holding the bottle suggestively.

"What are we playing?"

Dartha straightens the chair back to its original position without a word, carefully watching the other woman from her peripheral vision. "OK, I don't buy for a second that she's as drunk as she pretends, and if she is that drunk, then she still managed to put together a somewhat convincing stumble that just happened to jostle me. Fine. If she wants to play, I'm game. I suppose it's possible she's both a Fool and a Challenge, but if time comes to eliminate her, I'm going to take my time and enjoy it."

About then, two men board the aircraft and she turns her attention to them. The one, older and with an air of military bearing and professionalism, lays eyes on her and seems to recoil. "That's not a response I'm used to" she thinks to herself as he pauses noticeably, staring at her face. "I wonder what's going on there?" The second man, a dwarf of apparently less advanced age, seemes to pay her considerably less regard. The dancing sparks in his eyes get her attention, though. "Ok, now that's interesting. As much as I'd like to get working on the muscle already-" she giggles mentally at the double entendre "-getting to know the dwarf should probably be a bit higher on my priority list." She swivels her chair to follow the movements of the two men. The older military man -Maxwell?- drops his coat in his seat and sits on it while pulling out a pack of playing cards, apparently determined to get his mind off whatever is bothering him. Her eyes note the hand cannon in its holster under his arm.

The drunk woman leans in and shows off her wares to the two men and Dartha thanks her powers once again as she suppresses a dramatic eye-roll. "Sparkle" indeed. "What are we playing?" she thinks sarcastically "Why don't we just open up the aisle so you can play spin the bottle after you've poured your 'Scottish Pride' down your throat?"

"Maxwell, was it?" she asks instead with warmth and concern "You seem frustrated. We haven't even gotten our wheels up yet, so I sincerely hope things aren't already going downhill for us. Is something wrong?"