OOC: Use this thread for everything IC.

Posting Rules

Just like almost everyone else on the board I'm gonna be stealing Redjack's posting structure, so here you go.

All your posts should begin with a time/date stamp in orange, detailing location, time, and date. Underneath, in italics, add your PAN mode, hidden, active, or passive, in dark grey.

- - "Speech color=cyan, optionally enclosed in quotes" (Penta note: Quotes HIGHLY recommended!)
- - <Coms (subvocal) color=violet>
- - <Coms (Text) color=yellow>
- - Thoughts color=darkkhaki and in italics
- - Memories, flashbacks, dreams color=green and in italics

Spoiler all private actions, but if its something really private, or you're setting up a backstab, feel free to PM me.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0030 Eastern Daylight Time/0430 Zulu
[Not Applicable]

Across Miami, commlinks buzz with an incoming encrypted message. Well, normally they'd buzz. This time, the incoming-message sound is of ship's bells.

<<Good evening. folks. Roberts here. The meeting with Mr. Johnson for your final contract instructions is confirmed for 0900 sharp at pier 34. Please come prepared for sea activity, and for a military atmosphere. Lateness will not be tolerated.>>

Following that message, Roberts begins drafting another. This one is encrypted in an entirely different cipher.


Following that up with some personal messages, he then steps off to bed. Not like he needs to sleep for very long, but the nearly-30-year-old man figures it's better than sitting up watching late-night trid.

5 hours later, he's up again - after making some final packing to his bags, he gets dressed and heads out. May as well catch the dawn down at the ship.
---
<<OOC: This message comes pretty much unexpectedly - you hadn't been informed when the final meeting with the J was going to be, but this is possibly a bit sooner than you'd expected.>>

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0600 Eastern Daylight Time/1000 Zulu
[Kevin Roberts, Public Mode]
Pier 34, Port of Miami

Stepping out of the cab, Kevin Roberts grabbed his seabag and his cap, paying the cabbie with a thought to his commlink and striding down the pier, placing his cap over his brown hair neatly as he looked into the clear, dry, cool morning that marked the oncoming summer.

Before his destination even came into view, he saw a guard in a uniform without markings approach, rifle at the ready. "Halt! Who goes there?" challenged the guard.

"A friend!" Roberts called back.

"Approach and be recognized, friend!" the guard responded.

Roberts did so...And the guard came to port arms.

"Pass, sir!"

Roberts saluted smartly, then walked on.

A few hundred feet onward, the ship slowly came into view: Her lines were sleek and graceful; even with the modifications, the yard had kept a sense of artistry. MY QUICKSILVER was painted on the sides and the stern, with the registry NEWPORT, RI, UCAS below that on the stern in slightly smaller letters. The UCAS Ensign flew from the stern as well, he saw.

It was a beautiful yacht they had paid for, he considered mentally. Hopefully it'd be put to a good use by the team he'd selected.

Five hundred thousand nuyen was a small amount in budgetary terms, granted...But he wouldn't have gotten where he was today if he'd been careless with even the smallest budgets. He was reminded of Everett Dirksen's quip that "A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon, you're talking real money"...and quietly thanked God that he wasn't in charge of a project quite that big.

With that thought, he approached the vessel closer.

Another challenge from another guard, responded to in the exact same way. Then, he stood before the gangway, spotting a UCAS flag hanging aboard the ship at the entrance to the vessel, with someone in dress whites standing there.

Approaching, he called out "Roberts requesting permission to come aboard."

"Roberts, permission granted. Welcome aboard." replied the officer.

Roberts stepped up the gangway, then saluted the flag, before saluting the officer. His salute was returned, before the officer smiled and extended a hand.

"You're up early, for someone who's been on independent duty for two years." the officer noted with a grin as the two shook hands.

"What can I say, I kept to my usual habits." Roberts replied, smiling. "What's with the dress whites and the flag? I thought we were keeping this undercover."

"We are; But we're not going to keep their affiliation secret from your operators. We're just not going to reveal it til the last possible moment. You said yourself, you chose them for discretion, in part."

"Still, ain't this a bit formal?"

"They were cleared in part on their ability to form a disciplined force. If they can't stand the rituals of the sea, how will they stand the rigors of watchstanding? Besides, it's not for them, it's for the team that's been working on this project back home while you've been mostly here in Miami."

"So I should change?"

"Dress whites or your best civvies, your choice."

"I'm going to go change into civvies, then. I'm the one who'll be meeting them at the foot of the pier, after all."

A nod from the other officer. "It's good to have you back, Lieutenant. When you're changed, come back up and we'll have breakfast, catch up."

"Thank you, sir. It's good to be back."

With that, Roberts went below, following the AR "guidance lights" to his quarters. It was a touch borrowed from an old book, "Ender's Game"; each crewmember was issued a set of colors that were picked for them, and the triple-light sequence was projected in AR along the walls, guiding the user to their quarters or other destination, keying to their commlink for verification.

When he got to his quarters, he changed from what he had previously been wearing into civilian clothes.

Two hours later: 0800 EDT/1200 Zulu

Another message went out from Roberts to the team, again announced by the chiming of a ship's bell. At the same time, the guards returned to the ship, replaced by normal Miami port cops.

<<Meeting in one hour, remember. 0900 sharp, pier 34. I am waiting now to bring you to Mr. Johnson. - Regards, Roberts>>

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0726 Eastern Daylight Time/1247 Zulu
[Malachi Garvey, Passive]
General Vicinity Pier 34, Port of Miami

Malachi awoke not too long ago to find the early morning sun ruining his sleep. This normally would be a catastropic event but something inside told him that it was fortuitous this day. He rolled over and fell the couple feet to the ground, only realizing at the sudden stop at the end that his sleeping arrangements had apparently been quite narrow.

The fall to the ground of course brought him to full awareness, 1) Of his pistol sticking into his gut, 2) Of the soon to be bruise on his forehead, 3) That he was plainly outside. This last observation only came to him as a small shock as he'd spent many a morning outside after having drunk the night before.

Hot got up and took bearings on where he was, there were buildings all around him, but he can smell the ocean from not far off. He lets out a long and audible yawn as he stretchs out the kinks from sleeping on the bench. He winces as a particularly nasty knot works itself out from his arm. "Jah have mercy."

He gathers his things and starts walking down the road, it might take a moment, but he'd come up with something to do for the day. He heard a chirp from his commlink, and grabbed it just in time to read the last message he recieved before the battery on it died.

<<Good evening. folks. Roberts here. The meeting with Mr. Johnson for your final contract instructions is confirmed for 0900 sharp at pier 34. Please come prepared for sea activity, and for a military atmosphere. Lateness will not be tolerated.>>

Mal checked the time on the antiquated watch he wore and noticed that he'd have enough time to get there as long as he could figure out where he was.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0847 Eastern Daylight Time/1247 Zulu
[Malachi Garvey, Batteries dead]
Pier 34, Port of Miami

Malachi walked up to the pier marked as 34 almost fifteen minutes before the time given. The walk and the morning sun had been sufficient to get a light sheen of sweat on his body, and he'd zipped his coveralls down to the waist so that he'd be able to catch any breeze that came his way.

Dragging his two duffel bags behind him he made his way up the pier, he finds himself suddenly face to face with a Miami cop who seems to be intent on turning the rather dirty, and unprofessional looking Malachi away.

"Don't vex me mon. InI's galang." He points down the pier. "Biznees jah know?"

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0030 Eastern Daylight Time/0430 Zulu
[Ilana Duvdevani, Active Mode]
Four Seasons Tower, Suite 314

Cherry was in the middle of attending an online conference on signal processing when she got the message from Roberts. Still mostly listening to the speaker, the young officer nevertheless read the message immediately - after all, she's been expecting it for a while. <<Good evening. folks. Roberts here. The meeting with Mr. Johnson for your final contract instructions is confirmed for 0900 sharp at pier 34. Please come prepared for sea activity, and for a military atmosphere. Lateness will not be tolerated.>> Sea activity, eh? I do wish Uncle Chaim would mentioned that, though I guess he might not have known. At least the military atmosphere won't be any problem.

Even though the report time isn't for another eight-and-a-half hours, the news is exciting enough to wrench Cherry's attention totally from the talk. What's the use of compression these days, anyway? I can't remember the last time I didn't have enough bandwidth...wait, yeah I can. It was the war. Cherry's internal monologue halts for a moment in memory, before spinning up again and canceling all of the appointments and meetings she'd set up while she was waiting in town, sending along notes that it was possible but not likely to reschedule over the Matrix, and completely impossible to do so in meatspace. She informed the concierge that she'd be checking out, and requested the use of a hotel car and bellhop drone to escort her in the morning.

She then pulled herself out of VR and tuned back into the compression talk while packing what few of her worldly possessions she'd removed from her large olive duffel. She double checked her guns and drones - there against hotel policy courtesy of a little judicious wheel-greasing - and then showered before going to bed. Bed, of course, didn't mean sleep; it just meant returning to the conference in full VR. Sleep was for the weak. Well, the weak and those without regulators.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0850 Eastern Daylight Time/1250 Zulu
[Ilana Duvdevani, Active Mode]
Pier 34, Port of Miami

Cherry had been so excited to again have a purpose that she'd skipped her usual room service that morning to take advantage of the complimentary breakfast - a shame, really, as she'd just finally taught the hotel's chefs to make a proper Israeli salad. The food in the lobby or whatever had been pretty bad; everything had been too heavy, or too greasy, and either overcooked or essentially raw. Plus, for some reason there had been pork in everything. On top of that, she'd been interrupted by Roberts' reminder; apparently, there was a fear that some of her future compatriots might be too stupid to remember an appointment a whole 8 hours away. Still, food was food, and she'd somehow managed to choke down something before having the drone pick up her bags and boarding the hotel's car, a small but sporty model that would no doubt have been much more fun to drive if it hadn't been on autopilot the whole time.

The car drops her off about ten meters from the foot of the pier, and idles while the bellhop follows her up. She wears her usual fatigues; though they're devoid of any markings, they're clearly recognizable as being Israeli in style to anyone familiar with the IDF. As she walks to the pier, she sees a black man in some sort of altercation with some sort of guard. Smiling at the stupidity of antagonizing guards, Cherry comes to a point about about a meter, a meter-and-a-half back from the man and stands at easy attention.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0200 Eastern Daylight Time/0600 Zulu
[Eddie G, Hidden Mode]
Brickell Plaza Multistorey Carpark, across Biscayne Bay from Pier 34
Perhaps Eddie was once the trusting type but he had found that trust was a rare and highly valuable commodity in the shadows. Thus here he was, in the wee hours of the morning, looking on at Pier 34, where he was supposed to be meeting Roberts later. There was a ship already docked. Conditions weren't the best, full moon was last night but there was some fog. Zooming in on the name on the side, he could barely make out "MY Quicksilver".

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0800 Eastern Daylight Time/1200 Zulu
[Eddie G, Passive Mode]
Port of Miami
Interesting. They are certainly not making much effort to conceal their colors. This is going to be most interesting indeed. It would be quite refreshing, if this isn't a falseflag. Eddie made his way slowly towards Pier 34, taking a roundabout route. He made his approach towards the ship from the east. That way, whoever was on lookout would have the sun in their eyes while he remained in silhouette. Let's see how good they are.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0030 Eastern Daylight Time/0430 Zulu
[Dominik Koslov, Hidden]
Comfy Cube Coffin Motel, Cube D21
Hearing his commlink ring startled Nik out of his light sleep immediately.
Military? Sea? I'm going to have to have some words with Redd about the work he sets me up with. Although I guess I don't have a choice at the moment.
Nik sets the alarm and promptly goes back to sleep.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0700 Eastern Daylight Time/1130 Zulu
[Dominik Koslov, Passive]
Comfy Cube Coffin Motel, Cube D21
After waking up and doing his morning summoning and weapon check, making sure that a clip of subsonic is loaded into his Colt, Nik stops at a Nukit Burger for some breakfast before taking a cab to the meet.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0850 Eastern Daylight Time/1250 Zulu
[Dominik Koslov, Passive]
Pier 34, Port of Miami
Having the cab drop him of a block or so from the meet site, Nik walks the rest of the distance. He notices a couple people already there. A woman? Yea, cause that's what a team needs at sea.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0030 Eastern Daylight Time/0430 Zulu
[Roger Wayne, Active]
[Jolly Roger, Hidden]
Fairfield Inn Hotel, Suite 409
-Beep-
Jolly Roger heard the sound of his commlink over the trid in his room. The place was in decent shape, as he hadn't been there more than a couple days and he hadn't gone and on a bender to piss away some time. Ugh. Time...Midnight huh? Wonder who's got my number this time. He looked at the message and wondered a bit. Maybe this would be his chance to get a new life. Something a little better than glorified bar hopping along the east coast. He made an order for a cab to the address given and went back to his trid. About an hour later, he took his 3 hours of sleep, got up, played some matrix games, and then started prepping for the meet.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0730 Eastern Daylight Time/1030 Zulu
[i][Roger Wayne, Active]
[Jolly Roger, Hidden]
Fairfield Inn Hotel, Suite 409
Half-body suit, jeans, t-shirt, a couple pieces of Piecemeal, and finally his old leather jacket. With his street ensemble on, he packed up his few real possessions, holstered up his Pulsars (one under the arm and one in a quick-draw on his hip) and wiped down the hotel key before returning it. Nice place, but I ain't comin' back or he'll know where I am again. He climbed into the waiting cab and watched the lights in the city slowly turn off with the rising sun as the driverless car ambled its way through Miami traffic to the meet.


Miami: 1 June 2072, 0830 Eastern Daylight Time/1130 Zulu
[i][Roger Wayne, Active]
[Jolly Roger, Hidden]
Port of Miami, Pier 34
The cab arrived nearby the pier, and Roger exited with a bit of anxiety, this business was rather new to him. He was used to the barrier of electrons, fiberoptics, and light waves through which he did most of his less than legit work. This meatspace stuff was a little too fresh. He looked around for someone to indicate he was at the right place and saw only a military-looking guard. [i]I'll wait here and see if some other folks show up. Lo and behold, they did. Anyone looking at him saw an average-size man in non-descript clothes, standing around quietly like he was waiting for something.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0723 Eastern Daylight Time/1123 Zulu
[Salt, Public Mode, Daniel Martinez SIN Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami

Miami. Whoever decided to settle there had been insane. It is muggy, filled with bugs, and the people... ok, the people were not the fault of the settlers, but it was definitely wanting for people of substance. The whole town is like some kind of cartoon to Salt. Everyone is a little fake, or a lot fake in some cases. But the beer is cheap, and you cannot argue with the beauty of the oceans around that plastic chunk of property.

Beer can only get a guy so far, though, before he gets restless, and longs for something to do. If the message had not come in any time sooner, Salt may have just decided to tell Roberts to cram the offer, and seen about hiring on with another salvage crew.

But it had come in, and for that he was thankful. Sure, he was working the shady, if not downright illegal side of a coin he had been on the right side of his whole life, but in the end you fight the good fight, and they forget about you. So you adapt, or sit and be bitter your whole life.

Retired Warrant Officer Alan Hammond was damned if he was just going to sit on his ass and be bitter. Better to be gainfully employed, kicking ass, and still bitter.

The cab driver had miraculously been able to get lost on the way to the pier, or he would have arrived sooner. As it was, Salt was hideously early, due in part to his boredom with Miami, and in part because he was the type of guy who liked to get the lay of the land before going into a meet. With a colorful goodbye to the driver in his native Spanish, he steps out of the air conditioning into the oppressively hot day. Another reason he had wanted to arrive early: shade. As it is, he sets to scouting out a good shady spot as his first priority, ambling around as if he had other business here than with the boat. He had been dropped off far enough away from the pier that he was unable to see it, which meant that those guards could not see him arriving by a tourist's means. Today for clothing he had opted out of his usual loud shirt and shorts combo in favor of a workman's rugged clothing. Sure, it left him hot, but he did not stand out as much. And when he took up a position with a view of the boat and its shiny looking armed guards, well he did not stand out so much, and maybe, just maybe, they would ignore him after a while, write him off as a guy waiting to be tasked with something.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0855 Eastern Daylight Time/1123 Zulu
[Salt, Public Mode, Daniel Martinez SIN active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami

Settled into a nice spot of shade, Salt sits and watches the pier without really watching it. He notes the arrivals, presumably his fellow crewmen to be, and the change out of the guard at 0801. Interesting bit of subterfuge, that. It meant that anyone arriving to the meet in reasonable time (those who were not especially paranoid or bored, say) would not be tipped off as to the presence of military-types aboard. As it stood, Salt had been chewing on that one for a while. Military types meant this was not some rich benefactor or corporate muckity muck that was sponsoring them. It meant government, and that meant too many bloody fingers in the pie for his liking. Still, he had agreed to show for the meet, at the very least, and show he would.

At precisely 0850 he pushes off of the stack of flats he had been sitting upon, and walks down the pier, approaching the bored looking cops, and the pair that stand before them, one of them arguing with them. Not even to the meet yet, and there is a roadblock. This might be an interesting time after all.

Looking very much like an old dock hand, save for a lack of dust and grit, he stops beside Cherry, and tips a look her direction. `I don't reckon they're expecting you to salute or anything, soldier. Might want to drop the formality a touch.` Stepping forward, he nods to Malachi, and then fixes a look at the younger looking of the two cops. `Son, we're expected up on that boat in about five minutes, and you'd be doing yourself a mighty big favor if you just stepped aside right now and let us pass. Your machismo ain't going to suffer from it, but it will if I drop you in front of your boyfriend here.`

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0856 Eastern Daylight Time
[Dominik Koslov, Passive]
Pier 34, Port of Miami
Nik listens in on the conversation between the rastified man, the man in the workman's clothes, and the two cops.
"This meet won't get far if we don't get past the the beginning of the pier."
So he decides the best tactic would probably be to just ignore the cops.
So straightening out his long coat, which he'd be happy to trade the armor for some cooler clothes now that the morning heat was starting to bear down on him, Nik walks past the cops with a nod acting like he belongs there, since he does in fact belong there, walks a few steps, and then turns looking at the rest of the people who he assumes will be in the team.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0856 Eastern Daylight Time/1256 Zulu
[Ilana Duvdevani, Active Mode]
Pier 34, Port of Miami

Cherry is interrupted from her standing-and-waiting (a task that she grew quite skilled at in the military) by the approach of another man, this one dressed like a dock worker. From his casually offered advice, "I don't reckon they're expecting you to salute or anything, soldier. Might want to drop the formality a touch," she assumed he was probably along for the job - well, that, or just nosy. Either way, the soldier responds with a grin, commenting, in lightly accented English, "I've always found it better to apologize for excessive formality than for insufficient quantities of the same." Bored enough by the situation to be intrigued, she runs a quick search on "Mr Martinez", though she's not quite naive enough to think it's likely his real name.

She listens in amusement at his intervention with the officers, but when yet another stranger shows up and simply breezes by and up the pier, she shrugs and follows his lead, still a little distracted by her ongoing search. The bellhop drone follows obediently.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0030 Eastern Daylight Time/0430 Zulu
[Robert Mitchell Public Mode]
East wing. Martin Sanders' Villa
Sharky was just about to hit the hay after reworking the electronic firing on his rifle to make just that little less noise and movement.
<<Good evening. folks. Roberts here. The meeting with Mr. Johnson for your final contract instructions is confirmed for 0900 sharp at pier 34. Please come prepared for sea activity, and for a military atmosphere. Lateness will not be tolerated.>>
"Shit!"He wasn't expecting this of at least another day he still had a lot of gear in storage and transit via his Martin's summgleing ring. He was expecting it any day now but he'd have to get them to up the pace. Would probable need to arange to pick it up from the ship now. He was planing on such for the heaver stuff but now it was pretty much everything bar his rifle and pistol.Ok who do I need to call: Martin(hope he's still up or not busy) and then oh fuck it Martin has a better grip on who's who than me.
He hammered out a quick message.


Miami: 1 June 2072, 0530 Eastern Daylight Time/0930 Zulu
[Robert Mitchell Public Mode]
East wing. Martin Sanders' Villa
Robert had spent the night packing his stuff. He had to dismantle his rifle to put it in his pack.I'd just got her all alined and every thing. Oh well we'll have some fun later.
<It's Martin. I've hooked you up with Deamon he should have it ready to ship 1000 latest. Good luck and all that jazz.>
Bob let out a sigh sure it might casue some problems but its better than being "mucle" with out your guns. Looking at his com he saw there was no time to sleep tonight. After having a quick brakefast followed by a shower. Checking his Yamaha Sakura Fubuki and loading it with the stick and shock rounds he'd set out for it. After sloting it in his cyberarm slide and attaching it to the air hose incase it was needed under water any time soon. He still had a while to kill. He called for a cab to taking him to the marina for 0850 and set a message to deamon to pick up the rest of his gear from the villa ASAP. Then sat back and played some martix games to pass the time.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0857 Eastern Daylight Time/1257 Zulu
[Robert Mitchell, Active Mode]
Robert Mitchell Public Mode
The Ork jogs up to the group his small pack slung over one shoulder mcuh to small to carry enough clothing let alone gear for the mission. "Sorry I'm running a bit late. Blame that incompetent cab driver. Names Skarky or Rob. I take it you are the rest of the crew for this?"
We look a bit of a rag tag bunch don't we. Well I'm sure our employer knew who he was choocing and why. He did say a military atmosphere there all likely ex-servismen...or women. Robs eyes finding Cherry in the group.

<OOC: This is a really long, but really important, post. Read carefully!>
Miami: 1 June 2072, 0900 EDT/1300 Zulu: Pier 34, Port of Miami
[Kevin Roberts, Public Mode]

"And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch it, we are going back from whence we came." Roberts spoke simply, looking out over the group as he stood from his position on the bench. He was in civilian clothes, the better to blend in."Gather round, gather round. I see you're all here. Let's go meet Mr. Johnson, shall we?"

"You were all chosen for your discretion, among other things. That goes for what happens down this pier most especially, whether you back out or stay in." Roberts paused. "Fall in behind me, if you would. 2 paces behind, please. Single file." With that, and only waiting for a moment, he began to stride down the pier.

<Roberts to perimeter. Approaching with operators behind in single file,> he subvocalized into his commlink. As he walked ahead of the team, "Jupiter" from Holst's "The Planets" began to play on their commlinks.

As they walked, the fog began to reveal the pier ahead - not very far ahead, one reason they'd chosen this position in the port, but far enough.

Slowly, the team could make out the guards in full battlegear, showing no indication of whence they came, two of them covering the approach to the end of the pier, who came to ready arms as Roberts approached.

"Halt! Who goes there?" challenged the guard at the port side.

"A friend with visitors!" Roberts called back, stopping where he was.

"Approach and be recognized, friend!" the guard to port responded.

Roberts did so...And the guards nodded, then trained their rifles on the first to follow him.

"Approach, visitors! One by one!" called the guard at port.

As they did, the guards compared their faces against photos sent to their helmet-mounted image links, and nodded each through, one by one, as the faces matched the photos.

The group then walked on, in the same single file, and slowly, the yacht came into view...Surrounded by still more guards. One at the gangway, where a man in classic naval dress whites waited. One at each end of the T-shape that made up the pier.

"So this is the team Roberts recruited. Well, fall in." The officer ordered, looking over each member of the team slowly, his face seeming to betray no reaction. His voice was that of a patrician New Yorker; on his shoulders were silver eagles. "I'm going to lay out the terms, and then you have one minute to decide whether to stay, accepting those terms, or go. If you go, no hard feelings. You'll be given something to cause you to forget what you've seen here today and sent on your way."

"The terms are as follows, with more to be revealed to those who stay: You will be acting as privateers for a major government. You have been loaned, as a group, 500 thousand nuyen worth of equipment to accomplish this mission, as agreed, including your vessel and all modifications, with fuel and water gratis, plus provisions and other incidentals. Your mission must remain secret; you will be supported to the best ability of this government, subject to need-to-know and the conditions of the operation. However, you will largely be on your own, acting independently. Your primary mission is to gather intelligence. Your secondary mission, as privateers, is commerce raiding. This will be how you support yourselves...and pay off the loan, which will be repaid through the taking of one-quarter of all earnings from captures and other income. Further conditions and mission orders will be revealed to those who accept. Military discipline, most especially a chain of command, will be maintained aboard ship, and you will be expected to respect the laws and customs of war insofar as your mission allows. Once you pay off the loan, your sponsor will take one-quarter of all earnings, with the remaining three-quarters to be at your disposal. On top of this, 2000 nuyen will be granted for each piece of reliable intelligence you are able to collect, all to yourselves, with no taking by the government. These amounts, most especially the value attached to your intelligence collections, will adjust with the value of the intelligence you collect and the takings you achieve, in your favor. You will undergo at least 48 hours of at-sea training, to acclimate you to shipboard life, naval operations, and maritime warfare, under the guidance of myself and Mr. Roberts. After that, and after we reach another port, you will be released to independent operations. From time to time, you will be issued orders from the naval authorities. These orders will come with a nuyen value - upon completion, such amount will be credited to your account."

The officer looked out over the prospective crew. His voice makes clear: There will be no haggling over the nuyen. "A commanding officer and executive officer will be appointed from among you, and you will by consensus choose a purser to handle such accounting matters as may come up."

"You now have one minute to choose whether to accept or refuse these conditions."

<OOC: I am going to be a bad GM and railroad you briefly. You all accept. How happily will be up to you, but you all accept.>

"I'm glad to see you've all accepted. Now, you're going to get something which I am told is very rare for shadowrunners. Honesty. Both as to your mission, your employer, and who the hell your "Mr. Johnson" is." The officer smiled.

"I am Captain Joseph Walker, United Canadian and American States Navy. 'Mr. Roberts'...Is actually Kevin Roberts. We offered him a cover name, but he didn't take it. He is, you see, Lieutenant Kevin Roberts, also of the UCAS Navy. Though I have some surprises for him, they can wait." Walker grinned, as Roberts looked surprised.

That wasn't in the brief! Roberts thought.

"Your employer, as you may have guessed, is the United Canadian and American States. Specifically, the Navy, under authority of Congressional Acts passed 6 weeks ago and signed by the President, issuing Letters of Marque under Article I of the Constitution and appropriating final funds to this venture; prior to that, we'd been operating out of hide. The resolutions were passed in closed session of both houses of Congress, but the Letters of Marque will not, contrary to the custom of earlier times, be held by this vessel, which is named in the documents. However, they will be available for your inspection."

"Your primary mission is to act as an intelligence-gathering asset, reporting through Lt. Roberts, who will remain your case officer. Secondarily, you are to attack and capture the merchant assets and carried goods of other nations and entities....Though not, of course, those ships flying the UCAS flag, or other flags to be detailed to you. You may support yourself through the sale of such captured assets, as well as income derived from what cover we, both yourselves and the UCAS Navy, can come up with." Then he pauses.

"Your third mission...provoked a bit of debate. Your fourth provoked a lot of debate. Both got settled by the highest levels. Third, you will at times act to achieve certain direct action missions as assigned, potentially including combat or the insertion of combat forces in a clandestine manner. Your fourth mission, in the event of declared war or upon specific, authenticated orders, will be to act as a supporting asset to the Commander, Atlantic Fleet, to support war operations as a raider."

"One way in which you will absolutely not support yourself is through the trafficking of persons...Or, to put it less legalistically, if you get involved in the slave trade, you'll have become rogues and the entire force of the UCAS Navy will treat you accordingly, coming down on you like a ton of bricks. That is a direct Presidential order. One, to be very frank, that both myself and Mr. Roberts have discussed...and agree with completely." Walker looked from one crewmember to the next.

"With that said, are there any questions?"

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0900 EDT/1300 Zulu: Pier 34, Port of Miami
[Robert Mitchell, Public Mode]

"Two quick questions sir. Am I understanding it correctly that we are now in some form part of the UCAS navy? Secondly I need to make an on route pick up of my remaining gear and personal effects via a smuggling contact due to both its nature and the fact I wasn't expecting this call till at least tomorrow. The gear will be able to retrieve from 1000+ at any near by local coordinates. Will this complication be OK sir." Rob has fallen back in to his military mind set almost instinctively. One things for sure. I don't think the UK will like me working for another government.

Walker replies with a grin. "To answer briefly: No, you are not formally part of the UCAS Navy..Your legal status is that of privateers. The simplest modern definition might be 'independent contractors'. I'll endeavor to explain more specifically the details once we get aboard, and especially after I figure out a proper legal explanation with the lawyers. So far as your second question: Depending on where it is, it shouldn't be too great a problem, but I would advise checking with Lt. Roberts closer to the time. Be advised that you may be engaged in training by that point, so we may be the ones to do the actual gear pickup."

<OOC: That's really not saying much, I realize. Walker isn't screwing it up - I am. Trying to figure out your precise legal status for purposes of things like the Geneva Conventions and such (insofar as it's observed in 2072) would likely be a point of huge debate among lawyers and others. You're not enlisted or commissioned into the UCAS Navy, but beyond that, I OOCly have not determined precisely what your legal status is. Dumori, in other words, that was a damn good question, bad me for not thinking someone would ask.>

Around you, you can spot drones flying about, evidently with the aim of keeping intruders out, providing jamming of surveillance devices, etc.

Miami: 31 May 2072, 2347 Eastern Daylight Time/0347 Zulu
[Passive, John McDonald]
TrixPodz, Miami South Beach
Aquaman was flying through the waves, feeling the rise and fall of the spray as it tingled against his skin. He looked back at the wake he left in the water and the Fly closing in. That's what you get with a top-rate autosoft, I guess. Wish I could make it fly like that. He brought up a feed from the Fly in AR, along with range from him and remaining operation time. It's catching up, just a few more minutes... He pumped his 'legs' a little harder and instantly felt the surge of the speed and an increase in the force of water splashing under him. Damnit! The Fly landed on the top of Aquaman's handlebars and locked on with it's gecko grip feet and tapped on his 'head' with it's little arm. <Too slow. You lose.>, it said in his AR window. <Yeah, fine, come on back now.> Damn bug. Could've at least let me win. Or at least beat me and not be an asshole about it. He wasn't too sore about the loss, though. He slowed to halt looked back to the shoreside hit containing his meat body. He jumped out of the SeaDoo and into the TrixPodz node. He took a cursory glance at the only other persona in this node, a human-sized dragon made of playing cards. He was preoccupied with beating some sort of aerial assault course consisting of sawblades, and noticed Aquaman. "Good morning!", the lucky dragon said. "It's morning already? How long was I out there?", said Aquaman. "About forty minutes. It's about twelve thirty now."

<"Ding, ding"> The sound of ship's bells startled Aquaman to attention, who thanked the cardragon, complimenting him on his icon, and logged off the node and left VR. He woke up lying in a small bed, inclined at about 45° from the ground, and removed the cable from his datajack. Sitting up and stretching his muscles, he reviewed both the bill for the use of the VR pod and the secure message he had just received. <<Good evening. folks. Roberts here. The meeting with Mr. Johnson for your final contract instructions is confirmed for 0900 sharp at pier 34. Please come prepared for sea activity, and for a military atmosphere. Lateness will not be tolerated.>>
Better get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. He transferred the nuyen to the accounting node, where an agent with a female 'voice' thanked him and asked he visit again some time. Sorry, sweetheart, I'm guessing you won't see me 'round Miami for a while. "Sea activity" sounds just fine to me. "Military atmosphere" couldn't hurt, neither. Aquaman walked out of the hut, picking up the Fly and in his modular cyberlimb's smuggling compartment and ordering the SeaDoo to 'bed'. Walking the short distance to his motel, Aquaman grinned to himself with a smile that made his tusks almost snap off.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0852 Eastern Daylight Time/1252 Zulu
[Passive, John McDonald]
Pier 34, Port of Miami
Aquaman was walking up to the pier with some undercooked(not that he noticed) McHughs in his stomach and his chrome arm attached. He hated the thing but always found it too damn useful to sell. Damn shame. I'd give my left arm for my old one back. Heh. Bad joke. Seeing an average-sized man in non-descript clothes standing around quietly like he was waiting for something told Aquaman he was in the right place. Must be surveillance. Guy's probably packing mojo. Fucking spellslinger's probably reading my mind. Hey omae! See something you like? Giving the man a wide berth and adjusting his cyberhand into the best position to catch the pistol in his cyberarm slide should it hit the fan, Aquaman walked to the small group standing by the foot of the pier. A female redhead in military fatigues, nice figure, too, a topless black man, an ork wearing a long brown coat and presumably liquifying in the heat, a man wearing rugged workman's clothing, and a man actively broadcasting a SIN with the name Martinez. Two Miami cops were apparently stopping people from heading down the pier, the end of which was completely obscured by fog. Suppose this is it. Small group. Can't stand standing out here in this heat much longer. "Hi, I'm Jackson. You with Roberts?" he says to the group, addressing the woman, who he now sees is an elf and also wearing a bulky machine pistol, in a sort of my-eyes-are-up-here sort of way. He failed to avert his gaze, though not from the pistol.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0900 Eastern Daylight Time/1300 Zulu
[Passive, John McDonald]
Pier 34, Port of Miami
A man in civilian clothes who Aquaman recognized as Roberts, shortly approached inviting the small group to meet Mr Johnson. Despite his civilian attire, Roberts soon adopted his military style of speaking, making Aquaman feel like a cadet again. It was a strange feeling that Aquaman had to get used to again, taking orders, yes, sir. Been a long time since the Navy. I'll try to make the most of this. After meeting Capt. Johnson/Walker and hearing the brief, Aquaman asks when the others have finished with their questions, "Sir, most of my equipment is currently stored in my SeaDoo Bolt PWC. Is there somewhere I can bring it on board? Would I be able to bring it with us?" Meanwhile, he looks through his cybereye's memory and finds an image from the pier: a image of the elf's bottom. He begins zooming in and pastes the image along the bottom of his field of vision in AR. Damn.

[OOC: What? The guy likes elf chicks! Who doesn't?]

"You should be able to fit it, though I'll warn that the PWC itself will be one of the first things we leave behind if there isn't enough room," Walker stated.

<OOC: There will be, don't worry.>

There is a guy waiting for them who seems to have pulled a better Copperfield than Salt had, and was sitting there looking like a prospective crewman all along. Of course once Salt gets a better look at the man, it clicks. This is the fixer who had hired him. He had been distracted by the confrontation with the Miami Cops, and had not paid the others, save Cherry and Malachi, too much mind.

Though he had spent much of his adult life giving orders, he had spent even more time following them, so it is with ease that he files in, follows through the perimeter, and falls in. No weapons check, but there are scanners that would be able to pick up the Kompact tucked in its concealable holster in the small of his back. Not that he is inclined to start a firefight.

Dress whites. That throws him for about two picoseconds, before he registers the rank and markings. UCAS, Captain, decently decorated. This was not shaping up to be what he had expected of the job, and there was a part of him that was inclined to walk before a single word was spoken. He quiets that part, however, intrigued enough by the dangle to see what they were all about.

When the pitch is given, and the ultimatum made, Salt's mind takes a whole two seconds to decide. Sure, it would mean he was on the books again with a government, but he knew the kind of asset they were, and he knew those books would go missing almost as quickly as they were written.

The revelations, as they were, and the giving of names which might well be meant to inspire trust in the veracity of their offer, did not phase him too much. He knew their type well enough. The Navy had been his family, and he was a devout Lower Decker. Officers were not to be trusted, with rare exceptions.

`Presidential Order, is it? I've met four Presidents in my time, none of them seemed the type that would cause me to lose any sleep if I crossed them. Still, you've got no worries about human cargo seeing the ship on my watch, unless it's a port-bunny looking to get her sea legs` He looks to the crew he is going to be set up with, and back to their chain of command. `I'm going to give your Quartermaster a shipping number, it belongs to a sea container two piers down registered under the name Daniel Martinez. My gear is in it, and he had best instruct the loaders to handle with care. Otherwise, all I want to know it if this is our boat, and what manner of training you plan on trying to instill in us.`

"I'm not going to comment on your comments re the Commander in Chief, except to wonder how one could draw accurate impressions of anyone from a few seconds on a rope line or what you see on the trid; But, no matter, so long as you do as the lady says." Walker responds to Salt with an easy grace. "So far as the shipping container's concerned, it'll be picked up after we're done here. So far as the training: It'll depend on the person, and on the role you take up. I assure you, we skip most of the bullshit. Does not mean it'll be easy. If this training does not test each of you in some way, we're probably doing it wrong."

<OOC: Yes the training response is vague. That's because I haven't decided on it.>

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0900 Eastern Daylight Time/1300 Zulu
[Ilana Duvdevani, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami

Cherry is disappointed but unsurprised at Martinez's boring life. If I had a fake SIN, I'd keep it boring, too. She is even less impressed by the military rigmarole as Roberts gives his little spiel and leads them up the pier, noting that the security, while impresive looking isn't very good - but then, Roberts probably knew all of the crew by sight anyway, and the operation seemed to have the correct combination of covertcy and unimportance that no one would bother trying to infiltrate. The mission itself is a bit less expected. The bit about respecting the laws of war brings half a smirk to her face, Most miltaries don't respect the laws and customs of war. Why should a bunch of pirates? The mercenary aspect of things, though, blind-sides her; for a moment, she feels dirtied, until she remembers that nuyen or not, she actually is here on orders. Unofficial, secret, not-really-an-order-orders, but orders nonetheless.

When Captain Walker introduces himself, Cherry is briefly amused as she realizes that she and Mr Johnson are of a rank, before recalling that the UCAS Navy used a weird system where "captain" meant "colonel". Americans, eh? She's reminded again that she's not in Israel anymore when the idiots around her actually treat Walker's offer to answer questions as anything aside from a rhetorical exercise. The question about their legal status is especially grating. Yeah, she thinks to herself, They're going to sponsor a piracy operation, but they're going to make us officially affiliated with their miltiary. You know, because they're so eager to go to war with someone. Idiot. The comments about the President are even better. The question arises: is it possible that the UCAS Navy is really such a different place? The other options - that her boon companions aren't used to the military, or that the peculiarities of the situation have changed the rules a little - seem more likely. Even more likely, the folks she's stuck with the the next God-knows-how-long are just not the sharpest knives in the drawer.

For her part, she keeps her mouth firmly shut, breaking attention only to get her duffel from the bellhop and send the bot back on its way.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0900 Eastern Daylight Time/1300 Zulu
[Roger Wayne, Active]
[Jolly Roger, Hidden]
Roger perked up when Roberts started speaking and motioned them forward. While he'd been waiting, he'd taken a images of his potential team mates for later reference. Some of these guys are pretty....colorful. He mused as he followed his fellows down the pier and near the ship. A stealth...yahct? The show of security went largely over Roger's head, since he'd never actually gotten involved in the military before, this'd be an experience to remember, if nothing else.

When the group met Walker, Roberts continued to be fairly quiet. It didn't take long for him to decide to get in the job though. It meant having a nice distance between himself and that festering, cancerous, scab of inhumanity that somehow sired him. He figured the job could also lead to further employment with the UCAS or its allies, so it wasn't a difficult decision.

As Walker described the overall mission, Roger suppressed a wry smile as he learned he'd be a pirate. Erm...privateer. The irony was delicious, considering his matrix handle, "Jolly Roger". As his peers began with questions, he pondered his own. Most of what we'll need to know is more specific, or something the team itself answers. There just wasn't much left to bother asking after that point without looking foolish, so he simply kept quiet like Cherry.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0900 Eastern Daylight Time/1300 Zulu
[Eddie G, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami

Eddie keeps his mouth shut and eyes open, observing and filing the information away. He is not perturbed at all with all the legal legerdemain, afterall he used to do the same thing for Yamatetsu. His main concerns for the time being lie with his would be shipmates. Eddie raises a mental eyebrow at the presidential remark. I supposed he never met Dunkelzahn. Then again, crossing the Big D, he'd have all the time in the world to sleep when he is dead.

<OOC: Oops. I missed something, sorry DH!>

Walker also adds, when responding to Salt: "So far as the ship - Until we reach our destination and have moored at a dock, you'll be in training and the ship will be ours. Once we're all disembarked, it'll be yours - sort of. The 500-thousand nuyen loan I mentioned will activate when we turn over the ship to your group's control. Think of it like having a lease or a mortgage, unofficially. The 500 thousand has, for the record, been spent in purchasing and modifying this ship, and in purchasing some associated equipment. We also threw in some equipment gratis, generally surplus stuff that would be difficult to trace back."

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0900 Eastern Daylight Time
[Dominik Koslov, Passive]
Pier 34, Port of Miami
On the walk towards the end of the pier Nik takes an image of each of his prospective teammates, walker, and roberts and reminds himself to put names and info to the faces later when he can use his AR Gloves without having people stare at him. I really need to look into getting a datajack or something.

Nik listened to Walker drone on about what the lowdown is and became less thrilled with the prospects of his soon to be employment thinking to himself, Really not to keen on not knowing what I'm getting paid upfront and all this military protocol crap is going to get old. That elf is kinda hot though. Ебена мать, Nik stay on track. Hmmm, I could turn this down, but they could still find me here in Miami... wonder where she's from, crap, focus. I think getting out of North America would probably be for the best. Дерьмо, guess I'm in for a boat ride. God I need to get some cooler clothes, I'm never going to get used to this Чертовский heat! Did he just say privateers? Like pirates? Maybe Vald would have been a better pick for this job, having an eye patch and all. letting out a light chuckle with the last thought.

Walker saying "You now have one minute to choose whether to accept or refuse these conditions." snaps Nik back to reality.
With a nod Nik shows that he's in, despite his better judgement.

During the whole briefing Nik remains quiet saying nothing.

Hearing others talk about pick up gear and such makes Nik happy that him, his Colt, and a bit of armor is all the gear he needs.

(OOC: Anything said in Russian is simply a curse word, usually translated directly from an English curse word using Google's translator, so I'm sorry if anyone speaks Russian and I'm using the words incorrectly.)

Mal's reaction to all that happened over the last little while was basically summed up in his gazing at a bird that had landed on the yacht. It's not that he wasn't interested in what was going on, it was just this whole military atmosphere. It was like someone up and dropped him right in the middle of Babylon and he didn't want to admit that he was there, so birdwatching it was.

Mal ended up nodding in turn when asked if he'd accept the role being given. It was a simple matter really, accept or go hungry. He continues watching the bird afterwards until it looks like the whole speech is over and Walker is looking to them for questions.

"Yah mon, mi ca hab some teeth fa mi Granny?" he asks of Walker, "Mebbe 'n some lambsbread? Lock InI inta rest yah? Ya nuh see it?"

Walker and Roberts both give Mal blank looks like he just spoke Martian...Then Roberts goes scrambling for something on his commlink.

"I knew I shoulda passed this out. Since almost nobody here groks Rasta lingo, I made up a datasoft glossary a few days back. It sucks, Malachi, it's basic, it's nowhere near complete, and I'm sorry it's needed...But Poor Communication Kills." He smiles sheepishly as everybody gets a copy on their commlinks.

Walker grins at his subordinate's scrambling...Then goes serious.

"What's Granny?...And you'll have to source your own weed, Navy would snap my neck if we used our resources to supply even light drugs. What you guys do in that regard is totally up to you, but don't bring the UCAS in on it."

<OOC: Less Mal can talk in standard English, I think the hastily-devised glossary will be essential. Cuz I just realized that Mal dun even follow typical English grammar like a standard accent might.>

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[Joseph Walker, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

Once everybody's asked a question or two (or, like Cherry, made it seem likely they're not going to), Walker speaks again.

"Next up before we go aboard comes the election or appointment of certain positions: Namely, the Commanding Officer, Executive Officer, and Purser. Lieutenant Roberts will provide you with capsule descriptions of duties. How we're going to do this: I will name a position, and if you think yourself qualified, you step forward and say something; preferably your name, but just say something. If only one person steps forward to take a slot, that person gets it. If multiple people do, we'll defer election by the rest of you til after breakfast. If nobody steps forward, I will reluctantly appoint someone. In all cases, selections do not become official until I so order it. There are other positions, more related to operational matters, where the selection will be handled by the CO, subject to my confirmation."

He gives it a bit so Roberts can pass out data and answer questions, both via commlink.

Then he speaks again.

"First up, for Commanding Officer. As part of the Navy's continuing efforts to remain on amiable terms with our friends in the Coast Guard, it has been decided that you need to be able to qualify for a UCASCG Master's License to hold this position. That way, they don't have to not see more than is plausible should you have to deal with them on the oceans. If you don't already hold one, you'll be trained towards one. Again, Lt. Roberts will provide details via commlink as to what that entails. The Coasties demand, for the record, that your skills be unchipped. Thus, I've been told to demand the same thing."

Once that's handled, Walker nods the candidates back into line, then speaks again.

"Next up, for Executive Officer. There's no need to hold a Master's License, though working towards that should be possible and would hardly hurt."

Once that's handled, Walker again nods the candidates back into line, then speaks again.

"Finally, for Purser. This position will handle all of the financials relating to your situation - and will be personally responsible to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, the Defense Finance and Accounting Service, and the Government Accountability Office for the regular audits that will be performed on the books. You do not need accounting experience for this position, merely basic math skills as learned in high school Algebra; the financial software that comes with the ship has been configured to help you do the books according to multiple standards, all at once. Embezzlement, I should like to warn, gets punished...harshly."

He waited a final moment for any candidates to step forward.

<OOC: I apologize for making this next a bunch of conditional statements, but it seemed the simplest way to write it.>

Should only one person step forward for a position, Walker states: "I see there is only one volunteer for the position of <position>. Hence, I confirm the nomination of this volunteer, and therefore so order the nominee to assume their position from 1000 local time today."

Should multiple people step forward, Walker states: "I see that there are <number> volunteers for the position of <position>. Hence, I defer the election to this position until such time as may seem opportune."

Should nobody step forward for a position, Walker just sighs. "I was hoping one of you would step up. I'll wait on picking a <position> until after breakfast."

In any case, after that, he turns. "Follow me, lady and gentlemen."

He then leads the team aboard, Roberts following at the back of the line (it's not practical to walk any way but single-file up the gangway), and then salutes the flag hanging at the gangway, and the officer of the deck, in turn (a process Roberts repeats when he's off the gangway), before having his salute to the Ensign there returned. After that, he leads the team to the formal dining room of the vessel. Roberts is absent for a moment, before returning to the group, now in his dress whites...and looking singularly mystified as to why he's in them, those of you who are more aware can tell, from the remarks he makes briefly to the Captain, who just grins, then looks to the group.

"Before we sit down to breakfast, a brief...warning, then some introductions. Do not ask me why, for I have never in all my years with this command figured out why," Walker begins, "But for some reason, every year, the Congress issues the Command to which you are attached an official entertainment budget. We have never, in my experience, ever used the damn thing for its intended purpose, until now...Where we're including you as guests of the command until your training is complete. Hence, we went a bit...overboard on the food. It's all real this morning, not soy or krill, and is stocked to stay real until we exit. Do not ask how much it cost; I pointedly didn't ask when I was informed of it. And it's all you might want to eat, for breakfast, anyway. Usually in the Navy, you don't eat this well...But this ain't normal. Namely, we have to spend the moneys we're appropriated somehow, and this seemed better than the alternatives." He grins, before continuing. "Thus the warning: If you have allergies, please, be careful."

Breakfast, as laid out before you, is like something out of dreams. The plates and silverware used are, given the glints off them, real. Not fine china, but hardly plasticware.

Everyone has the usual assortment of silverware, plus a glass of water and an as-yet-empty glass. Pitchers of orange juice, milk, and grape juice are present, as is coffee and tea in pots off to the side. Foods present? Eggs, pancakes, waffles (with the possibility of maple syrup from Vermont! Real maple syrup!), assorted fruits (including Florida oranges), and so forth. Not a panopoly of food, but a good spread of food, nonetheless, all served family-style to encourage conversation.

"And before we sit down to eat, my second warning, and an introduction. Everyone in this room is cleared for your op. Everybody aboard this ship is, but these officers know more than the bare details - they helped me and Lt. Roberts pick you. The officers and crew who sit with you this morning will be your trainers these next few days, and subject-matter experts, for your consultation through Lt. Roberts, thereafter. Basic rules of the Mess are: All conversation in English, and please try not to talk shop except as regards general matters, not technical matters. Otherwise, you'll learn as you go; mistakes are fine, this is training." Walker briefs.

"And now the introductions, in order of appearance. First up is Chief Petty Officer Jorge Ramirez, who'll be teaching basic military skills and etiquette for those with no military experience." He indicates a tall, clean-shaven human, Latin in appearance, who looks to be built like a truck, even in his formal dress uniform. Ramirez smiles and nods at the introduction. His smile, despite his intent, is kind of creepy.

"Next up: Master Chief Petty Officer Gregory Lynch, who has served as my Command Master Chief in the past and will be teaching ship and boat-handling, basic leadership, and maritime tactics." He indicates a similarly tall, clean-shaven human, this time looking Anglo in appearance, with a wiry frame, also in dress uniform. He doesn't smile, merely nods.

"Lieutenant Maria Benitez will be teaching damage control and naval engineering. She also was the on-site supervisor of the modifications to this vessel from it's civilian specs, and did much of the design work." He indicates an elven woman, with severe black hair and dark eyes, who nods in recognition; unusually for those introduced thusfar, she has obvious cyberware - namely, a datajack at her left temple.

"Lt. Commander Joseph Grant is newly arrived from teaching pilots at TOPGUN, where he taught what he'll be teaching some of you: Drone handling and combat, and related tactics." He indicates a tall elven male, with brown hair sparked with streaks of gray, who sports a datajack at his temple and a small, thin frame.

"Major Stephen Vaccaro will be teaching small arms handling for those of you who request it, and will be teaching on the politics of the region, as well as teaching Spanish and Portugese. Additionally, as if those weren't enough, he'll also be teaching boarding tactics, and he even teaches SCUBA diving." He indicates an ork of Italian descent. A big, beefy ork, who projects a curiously intellectual manner, despite being a big, beefy ork. It might be helped by his Marine dress blues, including a long Mameluke sword at his belt.

"Lieutenant Ignatius Esteban will be teaching Thaumaturgical matters. To include a brief overview for your thaumaturgical officer of region-specific issues, as well as a crash course in magical matters for those of you not gifted with such talents." He indicates a (relatively) short elf.

"Lieutenant Evan Taylor will be teaching Electronic Warfare, Matrix Operations, and similar Communications-related skills." He indicates a tall elf, who looks (for an elf) no older than 25.

"Lieutenant Roberts and I will be teaching intelligence collection and analysis, strategy, and advanced leadership. Lieutenant Roberts will also be teaching a form of Chief Ramirez's area, namely a briefer 'conversion course' for those with military service outside of the UCAS Navy or Marine Corps."

"Other than those introductions, I'll be dealing with training and in-processing matters after breakfast," Walker concludes. "Now if you'll all have a seat where indicated, we can start with the food."

The seating arrangement places Salt to the Captain's left, Roberts to the Captain's right, and so forth, roughly alternating between servicemember and shadowrunner. The head and foot of the table remain unoccupied, everyone sitting at points along the sides of the long table.

---

<OOC: Basic notes that don't fit elsewhere:

The formal dining room is big enough to easily hold everybody on the vessel, and then some, while sitting down at a table, when properly configured. It currently holds much less than that, and is configured for just the one long table. There are no stewards, it should be noted.

As you enter the dining room, there are Petty Officers, both humans, inconspicuously asking if you'd like for them to place your gear in your quarters, and checking weapons.

The setup is designed to encourage conversation between the runners and the servicemembers, especially, but also between the runners. It's not a test of social skills, though it might seem like that to the less-experienced.

I'll post notes on the OOC thread about your instructors and the like, as well as anything else this post raises.>

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[Ilana Duvdevani, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

Cherry's pointy ears perk up at the mention of officerial position, on the theory that being surrounded by unknown strangers on the high seas is a little more survivable if you're the one in charge. The logic quickly kicks in, however, that the Captain of a ship might want to know how to, you know, handle a ship. However, when Walker openly state that there's no such need for the XO, Cherry hangs back a moment to see if anyone else is going to volunteer before stepping forward herself. The position of Pursar also sounds vaguely worthwhile, but it probably doesn't do to have too much power in one set of hands; oversight and whatnot.

As the UCAS Captain leads on, Cherry follows, falling into line wherever feels natural in the small mob of crew. She echos the man's salutes to flag and guard, somewhat surprising the latter, but it's only polite, right? She easily hands her bag to the orderly who tries to take it from her, but puts up a fuss when they try to take her weapon, assenting only when Walker gives a heavy glance. Later, an eyebrow rises in curiosity at Roberts' new clothes, and Cherry briefly glances down at her own completely unadorned uniform, feeling undressed for a moment. The smell and sight of breakfast quickly fixes the feeling, though it's likely that our heroine, who comes from a rich family and is no stranger to fresh produce, benefits less from the experience than most of her fellows.

The elf takes in each of the instructors in turn, instantly marking Benitez and Taylor as kindred geek spirits, and the latter as pretty cute besides. She also marks Grant as an asshole pilot, a breed she was overly familiar with and had hoped to get away from out of the IDF. La plus ça change, I guess. All in all, it's a pretty typical collection of military archetypes, and Cherry feels right at home...a slight downer because she was hoping for a vacation from the military when she took her break. With luck, her new fellows might be a little less typical.

Once everyone's seated and starts in on their food, food is procured - mostly to fruit and some eggs, though the latter are a little undercooked for her taste - before seizing the initiative like they taught in OCS and standing to introduce herself. "I'm Ila - uh, Cherry," she says, slight accent still apparent, "And I'm an Electronic Warfare specialist. We're not supposed to, uh, 'talk shop' right now, so I won't go into it. I'd just like to say that this assignment seems pretty different from anything I've ever done before, and I'm looking forward to it. I sailed a little when I was younger," she adds with a little grin, "But fuck if I remember anything."

Introduction complete, she settles in. She's clearly a little uncomfortable with the situation, but quickly forms a little chatting circle with Benitez, Taylor, and whoever else wants to join in about the rights of AIs; Esteban occasionally chimes in on the related topic of free spirits. The more observant might note that she smiles and laughs at Taylor a little more than is strictly appropriate, but he doesn't seem to respond visibly.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[John McDonald, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

Upon entering the dining area, Or should that be mess? Is this a Navy vessel or civilian? Aquaman checks his concealed weapons with the Petty Officers, namely the Beretta 200ST in his cyberholster, and then detaches his modular cyberarm and handing that over. "Try not to drop it, it's got a concealed cybergun in there," he says with a tusky grin at the bewildered officer. "Also, could you see to it I get one of my other arms from my PWC as soon as it docks? Thanks." Taking a seat opposite Cherry and as far away from Esteban, he introduces himself. "I'm Jackson, or Aquaman, and I'll be your pilot for the foreseeable future," he says to the group almost purposely stressing his accent, "And as far as I'm concerned, I'm the best damn Navy pilot in the whole CAS, and if you have trouble believing it, let's just say I'm the best on board." He then rattles off a short list of CAS Navy ships he served on, most of which falling under the 'expensive' part of the spectrum. His voice appears to a little strained [OOC: Hearing-based Perception Test Threshold 3? Am I allowed to do that?] when he mentions his last posting. "I was on the [insert CAS Navy ship here], when the Crash hit. Some runners saw it as a target of opportunity and took it. We managed to repel the boarders, but the captain went down, and in the confusion, I lost my arm. Shortly afterward, I ended up with Ol' Stumpy here." waving what's left of his left arm like a trophy. When he says he lost his arm in battle he appears to be lying. [OOC: Judge Intentions Test? Lie Detection Software? I dunno, Threshold 3, though. I'm gonna stop doing this now. Also, the Navy ship he was on does have a name, I just don't know it. Someone PM me and I'll retroedit.] "Well, I guess that's me. What do you think?" he asks with a worried look. Hope I haven't made any enemies. People don't like to see severed arms at breakfast. Aquaman shortly starts eating slowly, since slowly's the only way you can eat with one arm. He joins in with Cherry's conversation, almost too eagerly as he starts spitting orange juice, before checking himself. "You talking about AI's rights? I thought that was settled? It's gonna be inevitable anyway, it's like a domino effect. Seems like who anyone can say, 'Hey, what about us?' get's the vote nowadays, but hey, it's a free world, right? he says, grinning at his joke, particularly at Cherry. Every time Esteban speaks, Aquaman stops, as though, the mage was physically getting in his way and sighs whenever he tries to make eye contact. Why do people always insist on having magicians around? You can't rely on them. Spells fail, spirits get pissed off if you don't pat them on the head every five minutes. All they're good for is making pretty flashing lights. Aquaman then sends a short encrypted message to his SeaDoo, <Why did the chicken cross the road?> After about two seconds, the SeaDoo's answer pops up above his breakfast in AR. <What chicken? Why are you asking me stupid questions about chickens?> Good, hasn't been hacked overnight, he thinks to himself as he recieves the preprogrammed response from his SeaDoo.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[Eddie G, Passive]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

Eddie divests himself of his weapons, even the ones he would normally keep on himself in discreet environments. He tells the petty officers to just put his weapons and gear in his quarters. He decides to keep a low profile and help himself to breakfast, rather than engaging in any small talk.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[Robert Mitchell, Passive]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

Sharky hands over his light pistol and combat knife but not the survival knife in his smuggling compartment(too much faffing to pull down his trousers to get at it while every ones waiting for breakfast) If challenged about it that's his reason.
While eating making the most of all the meat on offer. He talks to Gregory Lynch and Stephen Vaccaro. Finding another dive trained Ork an easy person to start talking to. He keeps his banter with every one mostly on the side of the operation. Asking around about peoples favourite guns and there reasoning. As mindless banter. He comes across as a bit of a geek when it comes to tactics and weaponry. He chatts a bit to all. Asking for a bit of detail about his crew mates seeing as we haven't even swaped names yet.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[John McDonald, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

Jackson adds at this point, "Well, I'm the best pilot on board, I can fix up this boat, plot a course. Plus, with my 'ware, I can do anything 'needs doing underwater and I'm a good diver too," showing off his retractable cyberfins in his now-webbed fingers, "I'm also pretty fair in the Matrix against IC if it comes up, and I can hold my own in the meat too. If anyone has any cyber 'needs fixing, I can help out too with that too."

[OOC: So there's three diving orks?]

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0910 Eastern Daylight Time/1310 Zulu


Malachi finds himself between the fighter pilot and the Elven communications specialist. Finding neither to really be interesting he spends his time listening to the conversation at other spots around the table, and taking advantage of the fresh real food. He can't remember the last time, (was there a last time?) he'd had nothing but real food in front of him. He notices Aqua's boasting of his piloting skills and pipes up.

"Bad bwai nuh?" he chuckles warmly, "Ooman be all licky-licky nuh?" He gives Aquaman a thumbs up and sticks another slice of mango into his mouth, grinning around his tusks.


He chews through the mango quickly and then takes his turn to announce himself to the gathered, speaking slowly and somewhat deliberately. "I and I's name be Malachi Garvey. I dun be good at no trix ting or no magicks ting. I do be good at the shootin' and the smokin. Me and mah Granny, we be keeping ya safe, Jah know? Granny's got the big boom. I also got d'knows about the Caribbean OK? But, I no like the speaky-spokey, is against mah beleef's, ovastan? So dun expeck me t'speak like dis all ways. OK?"

Malachi then sits back in his chair, looking slightly exhausted at speaking so slowly and deliberately. He grabs his OJ and finishes the glass in one gulp.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[Ilana Duvdevani, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

Aquaman's proclamation of his piloting skill is met by Cherry with a filing into her mental "ignore list". Not literally, of course; that would damage her situational awareness, and a vague memory of ten-years-ago Basic suggests that this is a bad thing. Malachi's comment, rendered as "Bad boy, huh? Woman are all licking you, yes?", is mostly understood, but both the comment and the hilarious rendition send her into gales of loud, distinctly unladylike laughter. When the Jamaican man explains that speaking slowly and clearly is against his religion or whatever, she asks him, "Wait, why is it against your beliefs to speak, uh, normal English?"

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
Roger Wayne, Active
Jolly Roger, Hidden
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

Roger considers his options as Walker makes requests for the command and Purser positions. He's really not the leading type, so he doesn't step forward for CO or XO, but when Walker requests a Purser... Better to be sure I can keep an eye on something so not everything goes to hell. Roger steps forward. "Roger for Purser, um, Sir" He's a little awkward with military considering his stark lack of experience, but he tries.

After Walker is finished and walking up the gangway, Roger falls into line along with the other runners. As guns and bags are checked, he calmly hands the petty officer a taser from his hip and one from his armpit holster. Before handing his bag over, he takes out what looks like a child's teddy bear toy. Anyone familiar with drones would recognize it as a Bust-a-Move. He hands the small "toy" over to the officer and warns him, in a perfectly straight face, "you'll want to be VERY careful with this. Don't press any buttons you find on it." As he hands it over, he sees Aquaman giving the other petty officer a hand, along with the attached arm... He smiles and chuckles a little, but doesn't say anything. No need for bad puns yet.

Roger finds himself towards the end of the table near Eddie and Taylor. He introduces himself before mingling: "Good morning, I'm Roger. I am a trained physician and surgeon, so I'll likely be the person you go to for first aid, check-ups, and implant repair. I can also do implantation surgery and pre-op if needed. Aside from that, I crack matrix systems and any gear with the misfortune of being connected to it, and I do it *quietly*. He then takes his seat and makes some light conversation after everyone introduces themselves. He eagerly digs into the waffles and syrup as they're taken. Mmmm, I haven't had these in 5 years. Not since Albany.

As he eats and talks, he hears Malachi about religion and Cherry's response. "Yeah, that is a little unusual. I'd like to hear about it myself."

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0910 Eastern Daylight Time/1310 Zulu
[John McDonald, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League



Chuckling, Jackson replies, "Heh, yeah, can't you see 'em under the table?" with a crude ork laugh and a surreptitious wink at Cherry, who is still laughing her head off.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[Alan Hammond, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

With the briefing on the pier concluded, and his employers showing transparency beyond what he had expected, Salt gives a reflexive stroke of his hand, and places the Daniel Martinez cover SIN into dormancy, replacing it with his own, rather colorful and yet quite protected SIN. He follows up the gangway and a grimace stretches the corner of his lip at the urge to salute despite having been out of uniform for several years. Old courtesy dies hard. Upon clearing the deck, he reaches into the small of his back, and releases the gecko-grip on the holster to his Kompact. He hands it over to one of the Petty Officers, reflectively dipping his eyes to spot the man's name tag. With no more than a nod he moves on, following Captain Walker into he dining room.

When Walker explains the presence of a spread so decadent, Salt chuckles; a hearty sound rolls up his throat. He was used to creative expenditures of budgets to keep the money from slipping backwards into appropriations hell. He could vividly remember the lead up to a killer beach party in Guam where a certain Engineering storesman had ordered large quantities of grain-based alternative fuel source for bipedal locomotives. That had been a good booze up.

Taking the seat which inevitably seemed to be his. He takes in the introductions, and quietly studies both the introduced instructors, and the reactions of the green crew. All the while, as they are introduced, he sips at a glass of water, having slid back into an old habit of not drinking alcohol while at embarked on a ship he was duty on. Noting that the others are making introductions of themselves, he listens patiently, and when it seems appropriate, he nods to the table in general. `Retired Warrant Officer Alan Hammond, CAS Navy. Engineer, dive officer, boarding team leader, EOD, and I make a mean Pad Thai.` He looks to Captain Walker a moment, assessing it would be the right time to step up to what was more than likely his responsibility here. `Call me Salt, or call me Captain, since I figure I've been asked here to command this boat, and keep everyone from blowing up the wrong things, which I am comfortable enough with. If anyone is wondering, I've put in more time on or under the water than I have on dry land, so you won't see me leaning over the railing providing bits of this lovely meal to the fish as soon as we let slip all lines.`

The way he says it, there is no arrogance, just a bit of naval bluster, along with a lot of measured though.

Throughout diner he will observe, for the most part, and hold polite conversation either when asked, or when appropriate to ask. He spends the majority of his time studying all parties at the table, trying to get a handle on his new crew, and those that would be making them just that: a crew.

MY Quicksilver: 1 June 2072, 0920 Eastern Daylight Time/1320 Zulu
[Not Applicable]

As the eating and conversation go on, several things happen.

One, after a few minutes, Aquaman is ushered outside for a moment by a Petty Officer. He comes back in a minute, though, now with his synthetic arm where the cyberarm he'd removed was. He also gets a grin from Walker. "I'd forgotten you had implanted weapons, Mr. Jackson. My apologies, but thank you for respecting the customs of the mess, in any case."

Salt gets a buzz on his commlink as files arrive, along with a note from Walker:

<Enjoy your breakfast, but while you do - here are limited copies of your crewmates' dossiers. Not the whole things, but what we feel comfortable sharing. Kindly don't let on that you have them. That said, by 0945 I'd like to know your picks for the various operational positions that need selecting.>

The files are reasonably complete: The sources and methods aren't there, but brief backgrounds and skillsets are, along with notes on personalities.

There's the occasional glance between Roberts and Walker, especially as Malachi sends his conversation into seemingly off-color territory. However, they don't say anything, keeping to their current conversations or lack thereof. Which, for the record, sees Roberts jumping into the conversation about AI rights.

"It's not inevitable they'll be deemed citizens. With the understanding that I'm speaking for nobody but myself...There are good reasons why you might pause before giving an AI, or a ghoul for that matter, the rights of citizenship. If for no other reason than 'How do you tell the sane AI from the crazy one?' How, for that matter, does one punish a criminally-culpable AI? You can't put em in prison, after all."

MY Quicksilver: 1 June 2072, 0920 Eastern Daylight Time/1320 Zulu
[John McDonald, Active]

"Not at all, Capt. Just my little joke. I get the feeling it didn't go down so well with everyone else, though. Not a nice thing to see when you're eating."

Roger looks over at Aquaman. "Hey, I thought it was good of you to give the man a hand." He gives a little grin.
Then he picks up on the AI talk when Roberts wonders how to imprison an AI.
"You can trap them in a node. Lure them into a node and cut off all access from it once they're in. It's basically prison."

MY Quicksilver: 1 June 2072, 0920 Eastern Daylight Time/1320 Zulu

"It 'gainst mi beleef's cuz English be the voice of those from Babylon. Dey takes da broddernation away from deyr homes. Mi and the bredderen we talk in our own way, jah knows. It do bring us as one."

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[Ilana Duvdevani, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League

As Salt introduces himself, Cherry's not sure how she feels about serving under a non-officer - but for a unit this size, it makes a certain amount of sense. On the AI front, she agrees with Roger. "I think an isolated node definitely counts as a prison, alright. You'd have to be very careful about isolation and data hygiene, though, to keep it from escaping or something. I think the bigger problem is Roberts' point: how do you tell a sane AI from a crazy one? Do we make a policy of only allowing anthropomorphic AIs to 'be people'? Hell, how can you tell a sufficiently advanced but non-sentient expert system from an AI, anyway?"

When Malachi explains himself, Cherry just looks a little confused, having resolved to crack the dialect herself rather than rely on the linguasoft, "Wait, if your brothers or whatever were taken from their home by people from Babylon, why is English the bad language? Shouldn't it be Arabic or Aramaic or something?"

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[Roger Wayne, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League
"Well, from what I understand, some AI are anthropomorphic and can be held accountable for their actions. Easy enough to call them "people". Others aren't as advanced and work on a sort of "instinct", mostly their original programming. Those I would lump more with buggy expert systems and we should delete them if they become destructive. I've heard some stories of weird AI that do things for reasons we can't really fathom, those... I'm not so sure what to do with."

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[John McDonald, Active]
Pier 34, Port of Miami: Miami, Caribbean League


"Run?" says Aquaman with a grin.

Miami: 1 June 2072, 0905 Eastern Daylight Time/1305 Zulu
[Eddie G, Active]
MY Quicksilver: Miami, Caribbean League

Though difficult, Eddie makes an attempt at trying to keep track of both sets of conversations at the same time, with the linguasoft presenting a translation in text format.

<OOC: Really long post follows.>

MY Quicksilver: 1 June 2072, 0930 Eastern Daylight Time/1330 Zulu
[Not Applicable]

Walker sends a commlink message to Salt:

<Mr. Hammond, I would think now is an appropriate time for you to announce who's been appointed to what slots, in addition to the previously announced slots. We're about ready to wrap up, here.>

As people finish their meals, servers come by to take their plates and such, in a discreet, professional manner.

As that finished up, Captain Walker speaks up. "I hope you all enjoyed that meal. Before we move on, I'd like to address some things I didn't address on the pier. Things that I realize may have been unclear, or that need to be said but couldn't be said out there.

First: You are not pirates. You should really try hard not to think of yourselves as pirates. You are, you need to be, professionals. More intelligence agents than warfighters, though combat will be a part of your job. In case you're wondering? In theory, the UCMJ applies to you guys and your CO has powers of non-judicial punishment - him and the XO will receive quick briefings on it. As a practical matter, though, I would be heavily surprised, actually shocked might be a better word, if it's used. It's there, but it should never have to be used. We're really depending on your professionalism.

"Let me underline that point: If you aren't a professional? Fake it til you make it, because you will be treated as, evaluated as, professionals. We recognize most of you aren't. We'll be your guides as much as we are your regulators, at first. Your oversight chain will go from the CO of this vessel, to Lieutenant Roberts, then to myself, and then it splits. Operationally and Administratively, it heads up through the Navy. Through a few Admirals to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and then to the President. Tactically, it stops with me. In terms of strategy and your mission orders, they're decided at the Pentagon, approved by the President in a very vague sense, and overseen finally by the Congress - often the Intelligence committees, but sometimes what's known as the "Gang of Eight". The Congress keeps telling me different each time I go to testify. While you are out at sea, I will attempt to support you to the limits of my authorization - ultimately, however, while you aren't completely deniable, 500 thousand nuyen can be hidden in various ways. We may not be able to give you repair access at a naval shipyard, but with enough warning we can find a private drydock that won't ask questions, for example. Flag-draped coffins of UCAS troops coming home, to be very frank, are a lot harder to hide, and a lot harder to explain to the people of the Nation. So you are the alternative. You are not expendable assets, no. I will do my damnedest to be straight with you, to give you what information and intelligence you need to know. But you have to trust me and Lt. Roberts, unnatural as that may seem to you. I grant, you have no reason to trust us. But you need to, or else we've wasted a lot of time and a lot of the taxpayer's money on this op.

"Yes, that is messy. You are working for a democratic nation; Not a megacorp, not a dictatorship. A democracy. Congress oversees all that we do in the military, including ops like this. That's what the Constitution that I and the rest of your instructors, and some of you, swore an oath to 'protect, serve, and defend against all enemies foreign and domestic' says, and what the Framers intended.

"But to sum it up: You are not, must not become pirates. You may look like them, act like them on the outside...But you cannot, ever, think like them, if this is to work. You are, and you must remember you are, the secret knife edge of one of the oldest democracies on Earth; battered, beaten, bruised, and much reduced from what she was, and admittedly imperfect as hell, but still a democracy. If you do your jobs right, yeah, you might become well-to-do. I won't guarantee riches, but even being government...contractors, if you will...Even that pays well enough to be comfortable. We won't screw you over if you don't screw us over. I won't allow it, not on my watch.

More importantly, though: If you do your jobs right, there won't be wars breaking out. You'll have provided us the intelligence we need to prevent them; whether that be through a short, sharp, surgical intervention, or economic pressure, or diplomatic pressure, or intelligence operations. If we manage to achieve other foreign policy objectives because of what you give us? All the better. But primarily, you're being recruited so that wars don't happen in the first place.

"When you need things? I will attempt to provide it, if it makes sense and doesn't jeopardize your cover. I cannot guarantee you will always get what you need from us - sometimes, we just won't have what you need, or to give you what you need would jeopardize other operations, or what you need we have but can't give enough of. You will need to improvise in order to pull this off. I do not expect a war warning anytime soon, but we included the third, and especially the fourth, missions to give us options, and to keep things straight for you. In case of a conflict in your objectives? Contact us if that's feasible. If not, use your own judgment...Not as to what would be best for you, necessarily, or easiest, but what would be best from a larger perspective. If that means bad things happen? That, occasionally, is a risk of the profession of arms.

"If the mission is compromised, well. All hell will break loose. I'm not going to expect you to swallow a cyanide pill, but try to avoid being captured. You aren't pirates, not legally, but other nations, and the various megacorps, may not see that distinction as being worth much. Especially Aztlan, who considers basically the entire Gulf of Aztlan and the Carib as their backyard nowadays. If you get compromised, we will endeavor to support you - quietly. Do not expect a breakout from a maximum security prison by Green Berets - but if getting you out requires a new identity or something similar, we can likely do that. You will not be disavowed James Bond style, but try for your sake, for our sakes, for the stability of the region's sake, not to get caught. State and Defense can do a lot, but we can't work miracles.

"Which lets me segue into security at the moment. The port cops were paid off by us, at double their normal salary, to keep intruders away. We have drones up. There are spirits provided by our magicians. We have White-Noise Generators running. There were the personnel you saw with rifles. There are ways we could be surveiled upon, but not many. Not when there are, frankly, easier ways to compromise this op...Which we've also protected against.

"So far as support goes: Where we can provide additional support, we will. Sometimes, for the sake of deniability, you won't know the support necessarily came from us. It may not seem extravagant, but it'll be what we can provide. Sometimes it'll be satellite intel. Sometimes it'll be people we can put you in contact with. Sometimes, it'll come in ways that don't look like support until the last minute, or except in hindsight.

"Your oversight while at sea will come from regular reports sent to Matrix dropboxes under encryption - which will also serve as our check that you aren't dead, captured, or similar. To get your money on-time, file your reports regularly.

"But mostly? Not all of you are UCAS citizens. You know that, we know that. We're not depending on that. We're going to do something possibly insane for a Johnson. We're going to trust in your honor. We're going to trust in your word. We're going to treat you as the professionals we hope you either are," Walker comments, nodding at some of the runners, particularly Salt and Cherry, "or that we trust you will become." And here some of the others get a nod. "We're also going to trust in regular audits of what you send back. I'll let the consequences for trying to screw us over remain an exercise for the listener, but I assure you, you'll have pissed off Congress. And me. You do not want that, both myself and my political masters seeking vengeance."

"Your ports of call will be wherever you can dock. Act as if you aren't government contractors, but never forget that that's what you are - bound by honor, if nothing else, to promote the interests of the United Canadian and American States. That is why I will expect you will keep your targets to permitted flags. That, and the fact that the moment you attack us or our allies, you become targets for the full weight of the Navy." Here Walker paused. "So far as the nuyen goes. Nobody asked, but I'll address it here. I can only spend what's been appropriated by the Congress, and it's too late to change the formulas so far as paying off the loan goes - you will see money, but our "takings" of about a quarter of the post-op profits, meaning whatever you take after expenses, will go towards paying off your loan. Which, I should add, has no interest...And not necessarily a deadline on paying it off, either. Until you pay the loan, that and what support we can muster out of hide will be the limits of what I am authorized to put forth, financially. Non-financially, we'll try to be helpful, but there are limits. Post-payoff, though, I'll negotiate with Congress about, because even I agree that 25% of the profits is a bit much. Chances are, they'll think up something, but a degree of takings is inevitable - it's one of the reasons we didn't just dump money into a black account. This enables the operation to self-fund, sort of, something we otherwise could not legally do. I wanted to hug the accountant who thought up the idea - thank God he'd paid attention in history class.

"Now, so far as the 'trafficking in persons' question, I'd like to outline what I understand to be the Commander's Intent on this; It may not have been clear on the pier. I asked about five or six times and finally got it in writing from the President, when I briefed the op, and so I hope I'm not mangling it when I put it in laymen's terms.

"In short: Trafficking in persons is intended to mean the slave trade, yes. If you capture them because they're a ship's crew, okay. They can be delivered to us, we can say the Coast Guard found em, and so forth. If you extract people, take on clients, take on refugees, take on shipwrecked sailors, again, those are different. It'd be noticed by other ships if you did not take on shipwrecked sailors, that's a requirement of the laws of the seas. But if you take on and transport what you know or should have reason to suspect to be slaves, we will be forced to smack you very hard. It was an essential condition to Congressional approval, as I may have mentioned.

"Finally: Your intelligence requirements will basically be "Keep an ear out and keep us appraised". Interrogations of captured crews, hacking, magic, running of agent networks...If you guys can do it without revealing yourself to be anything more than independents to outside eyes, go ahead. Tactical intel is good, strategic intel, commercial intel...If you can imagine it, it's probably wanted. Mosaic theory of intelligence compilation in action.

And with that, We now begin the inprocessing process. You'll be issued certain needed supplies for the next few days at various points over the next while. Until then, I ask that you wait here for a few minutes, until Lt. Roberts comes to collect you for the computer setup portion of inprocessing - security systems are now active, and just wandering the ship unrecognized has a chance of causing an unnecessary and quite annoying alert. Additionally, I believe that your Commanding Officer has some things to announce so far as your positions aboard ship. These positions will determine much of your training schedule over the next few days; there will be slots of time available for elective training, which you will register for through the ship's computer, like college classes. Some of your courses will use simsense primarily. Some will be live. Most will mix the two. Be prepared. We will next gather on the sun deck at 1000. Until then, I release you to Lt. Roberts and Chief Ramirez."

After Salt assigned posts (and Roberts noted down who's going where), things began to move quickly.

First off, as everyone else went through in-processing, Nik was escorted aside to what used to be the Owner's Study, which Captain Walker was using as an afloat office, more properly called a day cabin.

"Nik, I'm sorry to have taken up your time. While we were at breakfast, I received your police record from ONI. You've been found to be unsuitable for this operation. The Master-at-Arms will have your possessions brought with you to a hotel, where you'll be given accommodations and some nuyen as compensation for your time and trouble. Laes will be administered to wipe your memory of the events of the past few hours, and a cover story will be put in place. Do you understand?" Walker asked.

Nik nodded his understanding. Shortly thereafter, he was escorted off the ship by two big MPs in civilian clothes, who also carried his equipment.

After being put into a cab, he was taken to a hotel. Not a luxury place, really a budget place, but much nicer than he could probably have afforded himself. He was escorted to his room by the MPs, who then administered the Laes and performed the necessary editing to his commlink's memory.

He was credited with 6000 nuyen to his commlink - the government could afford to be generous at this point - and given the contact information of a fixer in the Miami area to replace Roberts, but was otherwise left undisturbed. The story was that he was a drunk guy who came by to sleep off the liquor instead of driving home.

When the MPs returned at 0950, the ship's intercom called out the following announcement, preceeded by the shrill tone of a Bosun's pipe.

"Attention all hands, attention all hands, this is the Captain speaking. One individual has been removed from the program due to unsuitability. Alpha Watch, man your stations and prepare to leave dock. Trainees, stand by for further orders. That is all."

The gangplank was retracted and the anchor raised. The ship was disconnected from shore power and other lines, and the mooring lines were taken up.

It would be as if it had never been there.

By 0955, the ship had begun moving from the pier, exiting the Port of Miami, looking for all the world like any other yacht.

By 1000, it had left the Port behind, and was passing Key Biscayne en route to the Atlantic Ocean. The intercom was softer this time as it announced:

"Attention all hands, attention all hands. All personnel not on watch, report to Aft Sun Deck in 15 minutes for certain business of the ship."

Following that, a com from Walker to the trainees, now 7 in number:

<Greetings, everyone. I realize the uniforms might come as a bit of a shock to you all, but they were suggested by Chief Ramirez. For reasons of safety, to be honest - your training will take you all over the ship, including to spaces where looser clothing, for instance, might not be safe. They remain, however, optional - and are not intended for wear off-ship. Your choice on whether you wish to use them after training. They're a test of a new working uniform for enlisted sailors - you guys were already getting lavished with budget dollars, so this was gleefully approved by Washington, eager to save money on basic testing. Comments are welcome on any issue, I'll make sure they get to the right place. Aside from the uniforms - please be aware that you are cordially invited to the events on the Sun Deck, for...certain activities, as well as the official unsealing of your orders and the issuance of the Letter of Marque. It's optional, yet highly recommended you make an appearance. After that, we'll be beginning your training. - Walker>

Meanwhile...

As Cherry steps into her quarters for the first time, she finds it rather well-equipped for her tastes. The bookshelves are full of books (and books-on-chip) relating to maritime law, electrical engineering, and a variety of other subjects. There's even fiction (stories of the sea, stories of space - there must be a serious sci-fi fan amidst your instructors, because it's not just the recognized classics, but some lesser-known stuff as well; there's also the stories of Horatio Hornblower, too, among the stories of the sea.). There are also, curiously, the works of Theodor Herzl (both "Der Judenstaat" and "Alt Neuland"), as translated into Hebrew and English, on paper.

Besides the hordes of books, there's some other stuff. A transistor radio looking like it comes from the 20th century sits on the desk, as
does a Bible - one of the newer Jewish editions, in Hebrew and English. Her gear's been laid out neatly for her to store as she will, and her clothes already are put away neatly.

Finally, there's a note on the bookshelf. It's written in Hebrew: Hand-written.

"Ilana,

We went for variety in stocking your quarters. Welcome aboard - the running joke around my office in Washington, among those that know of your participation, is that you're Israel's answer to the Mahalniks of 1948, Mickey Marcus most notably. Personally, I see it less as a joke, more of a hope. The situations don't totally compare, but the thought counts for a lot. The next week, if we're doing our jobs right, will be hard - on you and your new comrades alike. With that said, though, we know you gave up a perfectly good vacation to, perhaps less than willingly, join us. We appreciate it. - Walker

PS. Keep the Bible, even if you don't still believe. It's included for
a reason."

---

Aquaman finds his quarters fitted out to a more watery theme - there's a full set of fishing gear, for one thing, and his commlink beeps as fishing licenses for both UCAS and CAS ocean waters appear for his various identities. There's also books, paper books and books on chip. Fishing books, and books about the sea generally, fiction and nonfiction.

There's also a note, handwritten in English:

"Jackson,

Yeah, we went for a theme in stocking your quarters. The fishing licenses are valid - consider them a gift, though I'm not entirely sure how much of a chance you'll get to use them. -Roberts"
---

Roger gets books. Lots and lots of books on medicine, engineering, history. A wide selection, really, including books-on-chip that include a strikingly comprehensive medical library...That includes not merely the standard titles for general practice, but titles covering even some fairly exotic specialties like epidemiology, public health, and infectious diseases. There's also something framed on the wall:

"I swear by Apollo the Physician and Asclepius and Hygieia and Panaceia and all the gods, and goddesses, making them
my witnesses, that I will fulfill according to my ability and judgment this oath and this covenant:

To hold him who has taught me this art as equal to my parents and to live my life in partnership with him, and if he
is in need of money to give him a share of mine, and to regard his offspring as equal to my brothers in male lineage
and to teach them this art–if they desire to learn it–without fee and covenant; to give a share of precepts and oral
instruction and all the other learning to my sons and to the sons of him who has instructed me and to pupils who
have signed the covenant and have taken the oath according to medical law, but to no one else.

I will apply dietic measures for the benefit of the sick according to my ability and judgment; I will keep them from harm and injustice.

I will neither give a deadly drug to anybody if asked for it, nor will I make a suggestion to this effect. Similarly I will not give to a woman an abortive remedy. In purity and holiness I will guard my life and my art. I will not use the knife, not even on sufferers from stone, but will withdraw in favor of such men as are engaged in this work.

Whatever houses I may visit, I will come for the benefit of the sick, remaining free of all intentional injustice, of all mischief and in particular of sexual relations with both female and male persons, be they free or slaves.

What I may see or hear in the course of treatment or even outside of the treatment in regard to the life of men, which on no account one must spread abroad, I will keep myself holding such things shameful to be spoken about.

If I fulfill this oath and do not violate it, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and art, being honored with fame among all men for all time to come; if I transgress it and swear falsely, may the opposite of all this be my lot."

There's even an old-fashioned stethoscope. And a white coat in the closet...that fits him.

There's also a note, handwritten in English:

"Doctor,

I've been asked by our command surgeon to challenge you to recall when you said the...more modern version of the oath framed on your wall. (The classically inclined among us preferred a different translation, but the doc liked this one.) It may seem difficult to believe, but even on a covert op, we're traditionalists here in the Navy. We may not do things traditionally, but we do hold to certain unchanging beliefs. We encourage you: Follow that oath, as you have in the past even when it risked the censure of others. Do not be afraid to be the conscience of your unit. Oh, also. The medical library can be updated as you need it to be, as a help from the Naval Medical Command. They'll discuss the details with you. -Roberts"
---

Salt finds himself in quarters filled with books-on-chip and books-on-paper. They cover an eclectic range of topics, including volumes on modern naval command and tactics, but also a good variety of nautical and naval fiction, plus sci-fi. There are also books on politics, curiously. There's also two strange inclusions: An annotated copy of the UCAS Constitution from the Library of Congress, in a hardcover edition, firstly (though there's also a chip edition); there's also a sword hanging on the wall - what Salt might recognize as a naval officer's dress sword, as used by both the UCAS and CAS navies. There's also a note, handwritten in English:

"Mr. Hammond,

We tried to keep the books relevant, but we also figured some extra reading material might come in handy. From one commander to another, I can only encourage you to develop your hobbies and your personal life - develp yourself, to be honest. It'll keep you sane when command, as it inevitably does, becomes lonely. Oh, about the sword - No, it's not live steel, sorry. However, it represents what I've come to believe about you as Roberts and I (and others) were selecting this team: You have the potential to exemplify what a naval officer should be, even in this era. Consider it a challenge, Captain. You may be sent into the shadows, but that doesn't mean you can't be, even faintly, a beacon of light. -Walker"
---

Mitchell walks into quarters that, like the others, come with full bookshelves - an unabridged copy of each of the various Jane's guides is provided, on paper and on chip (especially Jane's Combat Ships and Jane's Cargo Ships) or at least as many of the guides as they could fit, as are books of a less military hature, including a healthy supply of fiction. Emphasis in the fiction is definitely towards sci-fi and sea stories.

There's also a note, handwritten in English:

"Mr. Mitchell,

You can thank us later for the Jane's set - it was no big deal for us to order an extra copy. It's not a complete set provided, there are too many titles for that, but we got the latest (as of a week ago) editions of the major titles, and the minor ones that seemed to fit the mission. Also, enjoy the fiction selection. - Roberts"
---

1000 EDT/1400 Zulu, 1 June 2072: Offshore of Miami

As the crew gathered on the Sun Deck, most were in their working uniforms, except for the officers who had been present at the breakfast that morning, who were still in their dress uniforms. The crew, except for the shadowrunners, quite naturally gathered in ranks, though standing at ease. Then, the Captain stepped out from the line of officers, and proceeded to a position with his back to the sea as the yacht motored past Key Biscayne into the Atlantic. Curiously, the shadowrunners were directed to the front row of those attending as they arrived.

"Everyone, thank you for coming. As I mentioned, there is certain business of the ship that I must conduct before all of you," Walker began, once everyone had arrived.

"On that note....

"Lieutenant Roberts, front and center." ordered the Captain. Roberts walked up, looking quite surprised, but then saluted. As his salute was returned, he dropped it, remaining at attention as Captain Walker spoke again.

"We received certain news from Washington overnight. Namely of certain actions confirmed by the Senate."

"Attention to orders." As one, the naval and marine crew of the ship snapped to rigid attention, but did not salute.

"The President of the United Canadian and American States, acting upon the recommendation of the Secretary of the Navy and with the advice and consent of the Senate of the United Canadian and American States, has placed special trust and confidence in the patriotism, integrity, and qualities of Lt. Kevin G. Roberts. In view of these special qualities and his demonstrated potential to serve in the higher grade, Kevin G. Roberts is promoted to the permanent grade of Lieutenant Commander, United Canadian and American States Navy, effective 1 June 2072. By order of the Secretary of the Navy."

"Now, if the Prospective Commanding Officer and Executive Officer of this vessel would please step forward, and assist in the pinning on of Lt. Commander Roberts's new rank."

After that is done, Cherry is nodded to step back, as Roberts and Walker raise their right hands, and Salt is handed a Bible by Chief Ramirez, open to Isaiah 6:8. Roberts places his left hand on the open Bible, and repeats after Walker:

"I, Kevin G. Roberts, having been appointed a Lieutenant Commander in the United Canadian and American States Navy, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United Canadian and American States against all enemies foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God."

At that point, Walker extends his hand. "Congratulations, Commander. Your orders to your next posting are being decided upon in Washington as we speak, and will be delivered to you at our destination."

After the applause dies down, handshakes are exchanged between the newly promoted and well-wishers, etc., the assembled crew returns to their ranks, and to an at-ease position.

"And now for the moment our guests have all been waiting and suffering through the formalities for," Walker noted with a grin. "More formalities, this time directly relevant to them."

"Attention to orders." Once again, the crew snaps to attention.

Walker then unsealed an envelope with a knife, pulling out the contents, before unfolding them and beginning to read them.

"Top Secret. 27 May 2072. To: The crew of MY Quicksilver. Crew of the MY Quicksilver: Acting under the authority granted me by the resolution passed by the Congress of the United Canadian and American States, I issue to you the enclosed Letter of Marque, with the aforementioned restrictions upon your activities to be considered a part of these orders. Upon receipt of these orders, you are to proceed to Cape May, New Jersey, there to disembark the naval and marine personnel posted aboard. Prior to such disembarkation, you are to engage in such training as may be decided upon by Captain Walker. Upon such disembarkation, you are to find and assault the Aztlan-flag Merchant Vessel Chantico's Bounty, endeavoring to capture it and the cargo there aboard. You are then to engage in such communications as Captain Walker shall specify. Upon such communications, further orders shall be issued, releasing you to independent duties consistent with the Letter of Marque. In engaging in such duties, you are not to attack vessels flying the flags of the United Canadian and American States, the Confederated American States, the Empire of Japan, or any of the Native American Nations. You shall also refrain from attacking the vessels of any of the megacorporations holding seats upon the Corporate Court, except for Aztechnology. These orders shall be read and acknowledged by the Commanding Officer of MY Quicksilver, and thereafter destroyed by burning in the presence of Captain Walker.

"Signed, Angela Colloton, President of the United Canadian and American States."

Walker handed Salt the orders, then. "Do you acknowledge and understand these orders, Captain?"

Once Salt signaled his acknowledgment, Walker took out an old-fashioned cigarette lighter (a zippo lighter, to be specific), opened it, and flicked it on, setting the flame to the orders and the envelope. Once the fire consumed both the paper and the envelope, Walker dumped the fine ashes overboard.

"I certify that the orders have been destroyed after being read and acknowledged, in fulfillment of said orders. Crew, dismissed. Trainees, you have 10 minutes to finish getting ready. You will then report to your trainers as indicated by com message."
---
OOC: Salt, assign posts quickly-like, please. Feel free to run em by me by whatever method. Time for that post should be 0930 EDT, please.

Training...If you guys want to RP the training, okay. If you want to skim it, okay. If you're doing a montage, pick non-crappy music. I'd like to go no slower than 1 IC day for every 24-36 hours RL. If you want to go faster, okay, but please decide on that faster speed as a group. To facilitate you guys having options, I'll keep my posts to overviews of the days being covered.

Somewhere in the midst of the shuffle and the ceremony of things, between breakfast and getting under way, Salt manages to process through the information at hand. He spends a little time putting together a message for the crew, and he tags Walker and Roberts so they are in the loop.

<Alright, this isn't my preferred medium, nor is it really something I expect will be set in stone. Indoctrination or not, I understand some of you are not military, and have no intention of giving this more than lip service. Once we're off the wall in Jersey, this all is paperwork, and whoever fits a given job, I'll be more than happy to see do it. Hell, expect me to be elbow deep in grease and in the shit as much as anyone else in the crew. I'm the Captain, and with that comes some distance, but if for a second you feel my door isn't open, or you can't voice an opinion, well fuck me I'm doing something wrong. So, with that in mind, and the spirit of brevity already bent over, here's the preliminary crew assigments, subject to change should we need to prove flexible:

Cherry - XO/Intel
Roger - Purser/Doc
Eddie - Marine CO
Sharky - Quartermaster/Dive O
Aquaman - Engineer
Malachi - Gunner

If we take on new crew, then expect this to shuffle, and as we all get used to one another, and I see in non-data form how you handle yourselves, this will be shuffled. While I'm not big on the chain of command, if you've got something on your mind, I expect Cherry to be in the loop on it. I'm not about to go keeping secrets from my XO.

Hell, I've said enough for now. We've got hard work ahead of us, and then a poor, unsuspecting port to visit and blow off some steam.>

He fires off the message, preferring the interim crew and their training staff be only let in on things should Walker or Roberts require it.

1003 EDT/1403 Zulu, 1 June 2072: Offshore of Miami
After receiving the message from Salt, Aquaman sends a message to Jolly Roger:

<Hey, Roger is it? Just wanted to let you know, I'm posting my cyberware specs to my PAN, let you know what I've got in case the shit hits it. Also, 'spose it's fair to let everyone know what I've got, too. Btw, you ARE a real doc, right? Not gonna do a magic healing spell or summint? Cos I had one a'those go wrong on me once, s'how I ended up with my arm the way it is.>

Aquaman then uploads the following to his PAN.

<Aquaman's Cyberware

Control Rig, Datajack, Simsense Booster, Orientation System, Cyberfins, Internal Air Tank, OXSYS Cybergill, Gastric Neurostimulator, Touch Link, Reaction Enhancer Rating 2

Cybereyes Rating 2
-Image Link
-Eye Recording Unit
-Low-Light Vision
-Thermographic Vision
-Smartlink
-Flare Compensation

Cyberears Rating 1
-Sound Link
-Ear Recording Unit
-Audio Enhancer Rating 3
-Increased Sensitivity

Left Cyberarm (Modular Lower Arm)
-Cyberarm Slide (Contains Beretta 200ST)
-Cyber Holdout Pistol
-Small Smuggling Compartment
-Enhanced Capacity

Modular Grapple Hand Cyberarm
Modular Synthetic Lower Arm
-Cyberlimb Smuggling Compartment (Contains MCT Fly-Spy)>

1004 EDT/1405 Zulu, 1 June 2072: Offshore of Miami

Roger gives a quick look over the 'ware inventory.
Yeah, that's me. No need to worry about me doing any mojo, I'm just a PhD. Hell, I've got 'ware myself.

He then gives a quick broadcast to the rest of the team.
Hey folks, Roger here. I figure we should get this outta the way real quick before we go to exotic, fun places. Who all has their innoculations up to date? I'd hate to have a sick crew after a boarding party, and we ARE going into a subtropical area. Don't be shy.