Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29 A.M., Redmond
Thirty checks his AR mapsoft window, which shows the vehicle's current position and their intended destination. "We're close," he says, "but I guess it depends on the condition of the roads between here and there. We could be there any minute, or we could have to circle around for miles if we hit a blockade."
Taking Professor's cue to switch to voice comms, he says, <<Welcome aboard Ferret. Professor, Heka and Thirty (that's me) should be on site soon, if the roads of the Barrens allow.>>
Full Version: IC: Post or Die
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Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29 A.M., Redmond
Ferret Had spent an hour loading his search program with questions, and cruising the trix. So far he had seen all the recent traffic accidents and pegged a couple as pretty suspicious. The search on Big Daddy was turning up almost nothing, save for some shadowy sites buzzing about his street cred and current whereabouts. The "405" query hit him with a litany of gang related violence that reminded him what goes on up there. Nothing that was obviously related to his floating teammate. Ferret scanned the parking lot for suspicious vehicles, but nothing was screaming target's car. there was two cars in the lot with four wheels and enough parts to move. One, an old Americar with a pile in the back seat covered by blankets. It could be someone sleeping, or a mini gun on a tripod. There was no telling from this distance. The other was a Susuki Quad, straight outta the 60's. Scrap metal welded on for armor, and a Pitt bull chained to the back bumper. The side was tagged with gang Aro's and paint, "The Block Cutters". Ferret had never heard of them, and doubted anyone else had either. As he scanned the ride, A Yamaha Growler rolls up with the high pitched whine of a dirt bike. The driver, a fat guy squeezed into a crash suit and helmet that were tagged the same colors as the truck cruised right up and in the front door of the motel.
The roads from tourist town were pretty bad, But the foxholes and sniper nests were pretty empty this early in the morning. Most of the criminal element was sleeping, either just getting to bed, or not quite up yet. The ride couldn't be completely peaceful, however. A few kids hanging around a broke down gas station, a mere five miles from the team's destination, eye Thirty's car. Two of them pull out sub-machine guns and open fire. The locals are beginning to stir, and the same holds true at the coffin motel. The signal is on the move. A call goes out. No one answers so the message is left with the MSP,<<Hey babe, how'd it go last night? Any more trouble? I'm gonna be ditching this comm, so I'll hit you up again when I'm fresh.>> The voice was male. Low, with a downtown drawl to it. Triangulating the signal wasn't pinpointing it enough for his exact movements.
Ferret Had spent an hour loading his search program with questions, and cruising the trix. So far he had seen all the recent traffic accidents and pegged a couple as pretty suspicious. The search on Big Daddy was turning up almost nothing, save for some shadowy sites buzzing about his street cred and current whereabouts. The "405" query hit him with a litany of gang related violence that reminded him what goes on up there. Nothing that was obviously related to his floating teammate. Ferret scanned the parking lot for suspicious vehicles, but nothing was screaming target's car. there was two cars in the lot with four wheels and enough parts to move. One, an old Americar with a pile in the back seat covered by blankets. It could be someone sleeping, or a mini gun on a tripod. There was no telling from this distance. The other was a Susuki Quad, straight outta the 60's. Scrap metal welded on for armor, and a Pitt bull chained to the back bumper. The side was tagged with gang Aro's and paint, "The Block Cutters". Ferret had never heard of them, and doubted anyone else had either. As he scanned the ride, A Yamaha Growler rolls up with the high pitched whine of a dirt bike. The driver, a fat guy squeezed into a crash suit and helmet that were tagged the same colors as the truck cruised right up and in the front door of the motel.
The roads from tourist town were pretty bad, But the foxholes and sniper nests were pretty empty this early in the morning. Most of the criminal element was sleeping, either just getting to bed, or not quite up yet. The ride couldn't be completely peaceful, however. A few kids hanging around a broke down gas station, a mere five miles from the team's destination, eye Thirty's car. Two of them pull out sub-machine guns and open fire. The locals are beginning to stir, and the same holds true at the coffin motel. The signal is on the move. A call goes out. No one answers so the message is left with the MSP,<<Hey babe, how'd it go last night? Any more trouble? I'm gonna be ditching this comm, so I'll hit you up again when I'm fresh.>> The voice was male. Low, with a downtown drawl to it. Triangulating the signal wasn't pinpointing it enough for his exact movements.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29 A.M., Redmond
PAN hidden
"Hi, Ferret here. Glad to be on the team." The new guy's voice is surprisingly deep but slightly nasal, although just not enough to be annoying. "Target is still stationary. If he's got wheels, I can see an old Americar here with something covered up in the back; maybe some of that missing gear. There's another car by the entrance, some sort of off-road buggy. It's got some rather obvious armor plating and markings for some gang I ain't never heard of. There's a mean looking hound chained up to it. Woops..."
Ferret ducks down in the van as the biker drives up and into the building.
Got another ganger just turned up, same gang markings as the buggy. Drove his bike right inside the motel, hah...crap, target's on the move. Ah drek, sounds like he's gonna dump his 'link. Either he made us, or he's just a paranoid fragger. I've got the front covered but if he goes out the back, we're screwed."
Ferret fishes in the bag next to him for his gun. He slaves the smartlink to his PAN and sets the gun to single shot mode.
PAN hidden
"Hi, Ferret here. Glad to be on the team." The new guy's voice is surprisingly deep but slightly nasal, although just not enough to be annoying. "Target is still stationary. If he's got wheels, I can see an old Americar here with something covered up in the back; maybe some of that missing gear. There's another car by the entrance, some sort of off-road buggy. It's got some rather obvious armor plating and markings for some gang I ain't never heard of. There's a mean looking hound chained up to it. Woops..."
Ferret ducks down in the van as the biker drives up and into the building.
Got another ganger just turned up, same gang markings as the buggy. Drove his bike right inside the motel, hah...crap, target's on the move. Ah drek, sounds like he's gonna dump his 'link. Either he made us, or he's just a paranoid fragger. I've got the front covered but if he goes out the back, we're screwed."
Ferret fishes in the bag next to him for his gun. He slaves the smartlink to his PAN and sets the gun to single shot mode.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29 A.M., Redmond
<<Oswald, we're being fired upon by some street toughs, but as much the shots here are disturbing, I think we need to keep an eye on the target. Can you help out Ferret?>>
<<Oswald, we're being fired upon by some street toughs, but as much the shots here are disturbing, I think we need to keep an eye on the target. Can you help out Ferret?>>
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29:40 A.M., Redmond
As Professor tries to duck the flying lead bursting through the glass and thumping into the door, he inadvertantly lets go of the wheel. The car bounces up onto what must have been a sidewalk at one time.
As Professor tries to duck the flying lead bursting through the glass and thumping into the door, he inadvertantly lets go of the wheel. The car bounces up onto what must have been a sidewalk at one time.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:27am, Oswald's GTS Tower, "Sky-pod," hanging roughly 80m over lower Redmond
Oswald switched on his archaic headset microphone.
<<Swinging back to the roach motel now. At least it gives me a wide arc to avoid detection... But, ya know.. Ferret! You've never heard of this gang before? At all? And you freaking sleep here? I don't like this. Probability.. that enough guns disappear to arm a battalion of troops.. no established group knows where they went... and now a new group springs up.. I.. is anyone else following me on this? I want to go in gloves off... I.. I think these guys have our hardware. This could be a critical threat. I'm going to put a round through his engine block as soon as I re-establish contact with the target's vehicle. A nickle-sized hole and a pool of oil is better than actively engaging our target of interest, yeah? Or do I try and trail the bike to our guns? Please advise. Command? Advise!>>
Oswald was starting to flash back a little to his time in the USAF. Zooming around in this rocket blimp was almost like the bumper-car version of a fighter jet. He could feel his brain bubbling with the sensations and emotions of the past. It was.. distracting. He was losing focus and beginning to question himself. Also, is Ferret a mutant or something? Living in the shadow of an atomic disaster? What the hell was going on? Who were these people? The target was..? All this sitting around! I need to take the momentum back! Focus here! Now!
Oswald switched on his archaic headset microphone.
<<Swinging back to the roach motel now. At least it gives me a wide arc to avoid detection... But, ya know.. Ferret! You've never heard of this gang before? At all? And you freaking sleep here? I don't like this. Probability.. that enough guns disappear to arm a battalion of troops.. no established group knows where they went... and now a new group springs up.. I.. is anyone else following me on this? I want to go in gloves off... I.. I think these guys have our hardware. This could be a critical threat. I'm going to put a round through his engine block as soon as I re-establish contact with the target's vehicle. A nickle-sized hole and a pool of oil is better than actively engaging our target of interest, yeah? Or do I try and trail the bike to our guns? Please advise. Command? Advise!>>
Oswald was starting to flash back a little to his time in the USAF. Zooming around in this rocket blimp was almost like the bumper-car version of a fighter jet. He could feel his brain bubbling with the sensations and emotions of the past. It was.. distracting. He was losing focus and beginning to question himself. Also, is Ferret a mutant or something? Living in the shadow of an atomic disaster? What the hell was going on? Who were these people? The target was..? All this sitting around! I need to take the momentum back! Focus here! Now!
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29:41 A.M., Redmond
Time seems to slow down for Thirty. He sees the muzzle flash of the ganger's SMG before he hears the report. He instinctively ducks, and simultaneously whips his Predator from its holster. The whizzing sound the bullets make as they pass through the air seems oddly musical, forming a syncopated rhythm with the krak of the impacts. One of the bullets turns the driver's side window into a spider's web of cracks, and travels through to hit Professor, but his armor holds. Another hits Thirty in the shoulder. It doesn't harm him, but anger flows from the stinging welt and courses through his veins.
Bakayaro!
The Predator in Thirty's right hand is pointed out the window at the gangers, with about a foot of clearance between its intended line of fire and Professor's nose. The pistol barks twice, then shifts slightly to the right and barks twice more. Almost as an after thought, Thirty reaches over and grabs the wheel, attempting to get the vehicle back on what used to be the road.
Time seems to slow down for Thirty. He sees the muzzle flash of the ganger's SMG before he hears the report. He instinctively ducks, and simultaneously whips his Predator from its holster. The whizzing sound the bullets make as they pass through the air seems oddly musical, forming a syncopated rhythm with the krak of the impacts. One of the bullets turns the driver's side window into a spider's web of cracks, and travels through to hit Professor, but his armor holds. Another hits Thirty in the shoulder. It doesn't harm him, but anger flows from the stinging welt and courses through his veins.
Bakayaro!
The Predator in Thirty's right hand is pointed out the window at the gangers, with about a foot of clearance between its intended line of fire and Professor's nose. The pistol barks twice, then shifts slightly to the right and barks twice more. Almost as an after thought, Thirty reaches over and grabs the wheel, attempting to get the vehicle back on what used to be the road.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29:41 A.M., Redmond
Professor curses in Sanskrit, Spanish and a couple of other languages. He latches on to the steering wheel with both hands and with or without Thirty blasting his nose off and ringing his ears, he struggles to pull the car back onto the road before they hit a lamp post or something.
Professor curses in Sanskrit, Spanish and a couple of other languages. He latches on to the steering wheel with both hands and with or without Thirty blasting his nose off and ringing his ears, he struggles to pull the car back onto the road before they hit a lamp post or something.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 09:30am, Parking lot of roach motel
PAN Hidden
"Hey Ozzie, be cool man. I move around. Only been in this lot a couple of nights. And yeah, I know most of the players down here, but these guys could just be too small time. I mean that buggy ain't big enough for more than a couple of orks and the fat dude that just rode in here on the bike didn't look like no Halloweener. But I guess our boy could of traded them some gear for the use of the room. Swing round the back if you can and keep watch there. If he comes out the front, I'll holler and you can shoot the engine out. That's the engine of his car, right, not my van."
Ferret quickly scans the sky for any sign of Oswald's blimp, then turns his attention back to the parking lot. Great, I'm probably gonna get geeked by the mad rigger.
PAN Hidden
"Hey Ozzie, be cool man. I move around. Only been in this lot a couple of nights. And yeah, I know most of the players down here, but these guys could just be too small time. I mean that buggy ain't big enough for more than a couple of orks and the fat dude that just rode in here on the bike didn't look like no Halloweener. But I guess our boy could of traded them some gear for the use of the room. Swing round the back if you can and keep watch there. If he comes out the front, I'll holler and you can shoot the engine out. That's the engine of his car, right, not my van."
Ferret quickly scans the sky for any sign of Oswald's blimp, then turns his attention back to the parking lot. Great, I'm probably gonna get geeked by the mad rigger.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29:44 A.M., Redmond
The rocky sidewalk, and cracked glass made for some tough shooting, But thirty still managed to blow the kneecap off of one shooter, seperating him from his gun and sending him to the ground. The loud cracks of the Predator in the confines of the car nearly deafened the passengers, and drowned out most of Professors cursing psychobabble. The steering wheel spun wildly as Thirty blasted the second ganger. Two rounds, center mass, dropped the target like a brick. Thrity and Professor both grab the wheel and jerk the car back onto the sorry excuse for a road. The other punks are running for cover inside the abandoned gas station, while the kneeless slot on the pavement rolls around in pain.
Oswald has floated back towards the Motel his long range scanners watching the building, But he's on the same side as Ferret. The two of them see another dirtbike coming out of the front door. Ferret thinks the bike could be the same, but it's hard to tell. The driver is definately thinner. He's wearing a helmet and biker suit.
The rocky sidewalk, and cracked glass made for some tough shooting, But thirty still managed to blow the kneecap off of one shooter, seperating him from his gun and sending him to the ground. The loud cracks of the Predator in the confines of the car nearly deafened the passengers, and drowned out most of Professors cursing psychobabble. The steering wheel spun wildly as Thirty blasted the second ganger. Two rounds, center mass, dropped the target like a brick. Thrity and Professor both grab the wheel and jerk the car back onto the sorry excuse for a road. The other punks are running for cover inside the abandoned gas station, while the kneeless slot on the pavement rolls around in pain.
Oswald has floated back towards the Motel his long range scanners watching the building, But he's on the same side as Ferret. The two of them see another dirtbike coming out of the front door. Ferret thinks the bike could be the same, but it's hard to tell. The driver is definately thinner. He's wearing a helmet and biker suit.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 4:14 AM, Oswald's GTS Tower, "Sky-pod," hanging approx. 80m above Redmond
In the time that it took for Oswald to stop himself from suffering a heart attack and to explain the current circumstances of the night watch, Jovan had done some contemplation of possible civil projects that might improve living conditions for the Barrens, given more thought to his suspicions that an Ares conspiracy of some sort was involved in this job, remembered a scientific paper he read in college a lifetime ago about the possibility of traveling backward in time via an infinitely long cylinder spinning close to c and his subsequent realization that such a cylinder would create a singularity and kill you long before it reached the timebending threshold, composed a limerick and a Shakespearean sonnet just as riddled with double entendres as most of Shakespeare's plays, realized by extension that "Get thee to a nunnery!" takes on a wholly different meaning when you know that 'nunnery' was a euphemism for 'brothel' at that time, and recalled this passage from King Lear:
'Have more than thou showest,
Speak less than thou knowest,
Lend less than thou owest,
Ride more than thou goest,
Learn more than thou trowest,
Set less than thou throwest.'
The Fool, King Lear, act I, scene IV.
Words wisely spoken, and ones Jovan intended to follow. But how to take the most effective control of the situation? He had no desire to provide his entire ability to assist this cyber-ridden old man. Always best to conceal the extent of one's power, he thought. But it also seemed necessary to place himself in the favor of the mundane before him, if only slightly. Manipulating Oswald for his own ends would be easier that way. Still, speaking so nicely to Oswald was just so bothersome.
"A further examination of the surrounding area will not be necessary, as I performed one the instant I arrived. I have seen no trace of a mage, shaman, toxic, or what have you." With a thought, Jovan's astral form slipped through the hull of the Tower cockpit and into the coffin motel below, to examine the target and look for possible reinforcements of the target - but he didn't think it necessary to tell Oswald that. Speak less than thou knowest, after all. "As for your proposed buddy system," he said the term with just the slightest hint of disdain, as to him it just reeked of childish simplicity, "if you summon me or I inform you of my coming, I will generally appear within a minute or two if circumstances allow it. If I bear urgent news, I will not bother letting you know I am coming; it would just waste time. You understand, I'm sure."
In the time that it took for Oswald to stop himself from suffering a heart attack and to explain the current circumstances of the night watch, Jovan had done some contemplation of possible civil projects that might improve living conditions for the Barrens, given more thought to his suspicions that an Ares conspiracy of some sort was involved in this job, remembered a scientific paper he read in college a lifetime ago about the possibility of traveling backward in time via an infinitely long cylinder spinning close to c and his subsequent realization that such a cylinder would create a singularity and kill you long before it reached the timebending threshold, composed a limerick and a Shakespearean sonnet just as riddled with double entendres as most of Shakespeare's plays, realized by extension that "Get thee to a nunnery!" takes on a wholly different meaning when you know that 'nunnery' was a euphemism for 'brothel' at that time, and recalled this passage from King Lear:
'Have more than thou showest,
Speak less than thou knowest,
Lend less than thou owest,
Ride more than thou goest,
Learn more than thou trowest,
Set less than thou throwest.'
The Fool, King Lear, act I, scene IV.
Words wisely spoken, and ones Jovan intended to follow. But how to take the most effective control of the situation? He had no desire to provide his entire ability to assist this cyber-ridden old man. Always best to conceal the extent of one's power, he thought. But it also seemed necessary to place himself in the favor of the mundane before him, if only slightly. Manipulating Oswald for his own ends would be easier that way. Still, speaking so nicely to Oswald was just so bothersome.
"A further examination of the surrounding area will not be necessary, as I performed one the instant I arrived. I have seen no trace of a mage, shaman, toxic, or what have you." With a thought, Jovan's astral form slipped through the hull of the Tower cockpit and into the coffin motel below, to examine the target and look for possible reinforcements of the target - but he didn't think it necessary to tell Oswald that. Speak less than thou knowest, after all. "As for your proposed buddy system," he said the term with just the slightest hint of disdain, as to him it just reeked of childish simplicity, "if you summon me or I inform you of my coming, I will generally appear within a minute or two if circumstances allow it. If I bear urgent news, I will not bother letting you know I am coming; it would just waste time. You understand, I'm sure."
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29:45 A.M., Redmond
With the car seemingly under control, Thirty lets Professor have the wheel, and says, "Sorry about the noise, and the wheel-grabbing. Wasn't sure you were gonna get it in time." He surveys the damage to the car with some dismay, and silently laments the foolishness of youth. "Well," he mutters sullenly, "I think I dropped one of them, and the other is going to remember today for the rest of his life. With any luck, the next time that band of gangers thinks about shooting at random passers by, they'll remember what happened to their friends and change their minds."
Such unfocused violence was never his thing even when he was a ganger; he had always had the mission of hurting Renraku in mind. Plenty other Halloweeners had been into random acts of mayhem, however, and Thirty was often dragged along for the ride. More than a few of them ended up like the kids he had just shot. He consoles himself that, if he hadn't returned fire, they may have gotten off another burst before the car was out of range, and one of his team could be hurt or dead right now. Still, it is a sobering reminder of just how lucky Thirty is to have lived through his gang years, and he can't feel good about it.
The throbbing sensation in his shoulder reminds Thirty that the others may be hurt, and he asks his companions, "Either of you guys get hit?"
With the car seemingly under control, Thirty lets Professor have the wheel, and says, "Sorry about the noise, and the wheel-grabbing. Wasn't sure you were gonna get it in time." He surveys the damage to the car with some dismay, and silently laments the foolishness of youth. "Well," he mutters sullenly, "I think I dropped one of them, and the other is going to remember today for the rest of his life. With any luck, the next time that band of gangers thinks about shooting at random passers by, they'll remember what happened to their friends and change their minds."
Such unfocused violence was never his thing even when he was a ganger; he had always had the mission of hurting Renraku in mind. Plenty other Halloweeners had been into random acts of mayhem, however, and Thirty was often dragged along for the ride. More than a few of them ended up like the kids he had just shot. He consoles himself that, if he hadn't returned fire, they may have gotten off another burst before the car was out of range, and one of his team could be hurt or dead right now. Still, it is a sobering reminder of just how lucky Thirty is to have lived through his gang years, and he can't feel good about it.
The throbbing sensation in his shoulder reminds Thirty that the others may be hurt, and he asks his companions, "Either of you guys get hit?"
Friday, September 11, 2071, 4:15 AM, Oswald's GTS Tower, "Sky-pod," hanging approx. 80m above Redmond
Is this guy kidding? He checked every aura of every person in the area the moment he arrived? He must think I'm an idiot to try that on me.
"Incredible! I was under the impression that you couldn't see auras through solid objects. I'll have to write 'Der Magiker' and let them know that they've been wrong all these years. Peer review has obviously failed them."
Oswald let out an exasperated breath. Typical lazy ass magicians. "Oh! I don't have to work! I can just do magic!"
"So, I guess you could put a Watcher on our guy and then check everyone in the building, room by room? Then stick around and keep an eye on any newcomers in the area? That's how a stakeout works after all..."
Is this guy kidding? He checked every aura of every person in the area the moment he arrived? He must think I'm an idiot to try that on me.
"Incredible! I was under the impression that you couldn't see auras through solid objects. I'll have to write 'Der Magiker' and let them know that they've been wrong all these years. Peer review has obviously failed them."
Oswald let out an exasperated breath. Typical lazy ass magicians. "Oh! I don't have to work! I can just do magic!"
"So, I guess you could put a Watcher on our guy and then check everyone in the building, room by room? Then stick around and keep an eye on any newcomers in the area? That's how a stakeout works after all..."
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:30 A.M., Redmond
"Yeah, no problem, big guy. I'm alright." Professor shakes his head a bit to clear his thoughts. At Thirty's prompting, he adjusts the rear-view mirror to look in the back seat. Heka had been quiet through all the fun.
"Yeah, no problem, big guy. I'm alright." Professor shakes his head a bit to clear his thoughts. At Thirty's prompting, he adjusts the rear-view mirror to look in the back seat. Heka had been quiet through all the fun.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 4:15 AM, the astral space of the coffin motel, Redmond
Jovan didn't bother interrupting Oswald while he was speaking. For every word and a half that came out of the old man's mouth, Jovan intently studied one of the rooms in this pathetic excuse for a shelter. At the same time, Jovan was working out in his head whether he should remain in Redmond until sunrise, as Oswald seemed to be suggesting, or return to his body and make preparations to bolster his and the team's magical defenses. Binding his current elemental might prove necessary, though he would have to order the appropriate materials for the ritual. The elemental probably wouldn't like it, so Jovan would have to talk with it a bit; ironically, after two years of using spirits as magical training partners, the bloodsucker placed slightly more value in keeping these immortal servants placated than doing the same for more mortal partners. Spirits were his main servants, after all, and a content servant was a competent servant - if he could install in his spirits a sense of pride in workingfor with him, all the better.
Jovan didn't bother interrupting Oswald while he was speaking. For every word and a half that came out of the old man's mouth, Jovan intently studied one of the rooms in this pathetic excuse for a shelter. At the same time, Jovan was working out in his head whether he should remain in Redmond until sunrise, as Oswald seemed to be suggesting, or return to his body and make preparations to bolster his and the team's magical defenses. Binding his current elemental might prove necessary, though he would have to order the appropriate materials for the ritual. The elemental probably wouldn't like it, so Jovan would have to talk with it a bit; ironically, after two years of using spirits as magical training partners, the bloodsucker placed slightly more value in keeping these immortal servants placated than doing the same for more mortal partners. Spirits were his main servants, after all, and a content servant was a competent servant - if he could install in his spirits a sense of pride in working
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:30 AM, Oswald's GTS Tower, "Sky-pod," hanging approx. 80m above Redmond
Alright. Commander Oswald Shankles. Man of action. In control.
<<Ferret, Is that our new ganger on the bike? I thought you said he just drove in? Figure him for a package-delivery guy? It's hard for me to tell from so far off. Let me know when you've decided on a course of action. If I need to contain him, I could possibly start cutting down old telephone poles in front of him to give him something to think about. And if he's not so good at thinking, I'll just blow his bike out from underneath him and hope he wasn't too concerned about the skin on his ass.>>
Alright. Commander Oswald Shankles. Man of action. In control.
<<Ferret, Is that our new ganger on the bike? I thought you said he just drove in? Figure him for a package-delivery guy? It's hard for me to tell from so far off. Let me know when you've decided on a course of action. If I need to contain him, I could possibly start cutting down old telephone poles in front of him to give him something to think about. And if he's not so good at thinking, I'll just blow his bike out from underneath him and hope he wasn't too concerned about the skin on his ass.>>
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:30:15 A.M., Redmond
The mirror brings the back seat into Professor's view. "Heka? Heka! Shit!!"
The mirror brings the back seat into Professor's view. "Heka? Heka! Shit!!"
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:30:15 A.M., Redmond
Professor was the first to notice Heka in the back seat, weeping blood from his new third eye. His face stared blankly, if not slightly surprised. It was a harsh reminder how fragile life can be. There seemed to be a lot of reminders since this job started.
Professor was the first to notice Heka in the back seat, weeping blood from his new third eye. His face stared blankly, if not slightly surprised. It was a harsh reminder how fragile life can be. There seemed to be a lot of reminders since this job started.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:30:30 A.M., The Recesses of Professor's Mind
"Who wrote the script for this world? Kafka? Burroughs? What the fuck have I gotten myself into? I take my eyes off of a new acquaintance and he's dead, like some piece of pork in the back seat. It doesn't make any sense. Everybody's dying. For What? Some punk bored at the side of the road takes a pot shot and we all kack? Why? I don't need this shit. I can't do this bullshit. I'm a fucking academic, dammit. Meetings. Classes. Bright, caring, collegial people looking into the human condition. Well here's the fucking human condition! You round a corner and something totally random rips your fucking head off! But I'm not an academic, am I? I'm a washed out piece of shit genius nobody believes in because some other random piece of shit decided to fuck me over. Now I'm stuck in this sewer, one piece of shit looking for another.
"Fuck."
"Who wrote the script for this world? Kafka? Burroughs? What the fuck have I gotten myself into? I take my eyes off of a new acquaintance and he's dead, like some piece of pork in the back seat. It doesn't make any sense. Everybody's dying. For What? Some punk bored at the side of the road takes a pot shot and we all kack? Why? I don't need this shit. I can't do this bullshit. I'm a fucking academic, dammit. Meetings. Classes. Bright, caring, collegial people looking into the human condition. Well here's the fucking human condition! You round a corner and something totally random rips your fucking head off! But I'm not an academic, am I? I'm a washed out piece of shit genius nobody believes in because some other random piece of shit decided to fuck me over. Now I'm stuck in this sewer, one piece of shit looking for another.
"Fuck."
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:31 A.M., Redmond
Professor pulls out of an emotional spiral and gets a grip on himself... and the steering wheel. White knuckles, ashen face and red eyes. "He's dead, Thirty. Heka's dead."
Professor pulls out of an emotional spiral and gets a grip on himself... and the steering wheel. White knuckles, ashen face and red eyes. "He's dead, Thirty. Heka's dead."
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:45 AM Downtown Seattle Near Redmond Border
The alarm on the telecom had been blaring for the last five minutes, an insistent beep that somehow the occupant of the dingy apartment had trained himself to ignore. Stephen was sprawled out over his couch, having collapsed there the night before, his dusty lined coat serving as a sort of blanket. Hefting up an empty can, he threw it at the offending piece of technology and yawned, scratching his mussed up black hair, sitting up. It was another day, another chance to find a mission and do it to his abilities. Or just another day to ignore everything, hunt up a woman or two...
Ah yeah, a nice female to fleece out of a quick lay, eh? Not like you need to actually continue your prayers or anything..
If Acme had canine ears, they would have pinned back from Coyote's comments. The Old Trickster always was a horndog, though he was making a point today that screwing around wouldn't hep his studies. He had to clean out and reconsecrate his lodge today, then start thinking about working on coaxing the spirits to help him with a new spell or two... As it was he felt he was almost ready to move to the next level.
Stretching out, the Apache shaman gurgled, walking to the mess of a kitchen and slapped the soykaf maker into burbling to life. He couldn't help but feel something was in the air, something was going to happen....
The alarm on the telecom had been blaring for the last five minutes, an insistent beep that somehow the occupant of the dingy apartment had trained himself to ignore. Stephen was sprawled out over his couch, having collapsed there the night before, his dusty lined coat serving as a sort of blanket. Hefting up an empty can, he threw it at the offending piece of technology and yawned, scratching his mussed up black hair, sitting up. It was another day, another chance to find a mission and do it to his abilities. Or just another day to ignore everything, hunt up a woman or two...
Ah yeah, a nice female to fleece out of a quick lay, eh? Not like you need to actually continue your prayers or anything..
If Acme had canine ears, they would have pinned back from Coyote's comments. The Old Trickster always was a horndog, though he was making a point today that screwing around wouldn't hep his studies. He had to clean out and reconsecrate his lodge today, then start thinking about working on coaxing the spirits to help him with a new spell or two... As it was he felt he was almost ready to move to the next level.
Stretching out, the Apache shaman gurgled, walking to the mess of a kitchen and slapped the soykaf maker into burbling to life. He couldn't help but feel something was in the air, something was going to happen....
QUOTE (Saint Sithney @ Aug 28 2010, 02:45 AM) 
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:30 AM, Oswald's GTS Tower, "Sky-pod," hanging approx. 80m above Redmond
<Ferret, Is that our new ganger on the bike? I thought you said he just drove in? Figure him for a package-delivery guy? It's hard for me to tell from so far off. Let me know when you've decided on a course of action. If I need to contain him, I could possibly start cutting down old telephone poles in front of him to give him something to think about. And if he's not so good at thinking, I'll just blow his bike out from underneath him and hope he wasn't too concerned about the skin on his ass.>
<Ferret, Is that our new ganger on the bike? I thought you said he just drove in? Figure him for a package-delivery guy? It's hard for me to tell from so far off. Let me know when you've decided on a course of action. If I need to contain him, I could possibly start cutting down old telephone poles in front of him to give him something to think about. And if he's not so good at thinking, I'll just blow his bike out from underneath him and hope he wasn't too concerned about the skin on his ass.>
<Oswald, could be the same bike but it's a different guy. Do gangers change shift? Or could it be our man? He was on the move, but this guy's no troll. Then again we don't know if it was BDLL using that 'link. Frag it. I think we should follow him. He could at least tell us what's going down at the motel. Can you take out his bike once he's outta sight without waxing him, or do I gotta try and run him off the road? Only problem is that then we wont have anyone covering the motel in case we got the wrong dude. I sure hope the others get here soon.>
Decision made, Ferret coaxes the van into life, and cautiously pulls out of the lot after the departing biker.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32 A.M., Redmond
Professor, Thirty and .... well, those two come around a corner and see the coffin motel. There is a biker leaving the parking lot and a white van that must be Ferret just moving out. He must be following the biker.
<<Ferret, Professor and Thirty here. We have you in sight. We are taking up position at the motel to go in and check out our target. Looks like you are following someone. Does anyone have intel on the occupants of the building?>>
Professor, Thirty and .... well, those two come around a corner and see the coffin motel. There is a biker leaving the parking lot and a white van that must be Ferret just moving out. He must be following the biker.
<<Ferret, Professor and Thirty here. We have you in sight. We are taking up position at the motel to go in and check out our target. Looks like you are following someone. Does anyone have intel on the occupants of the building?>>
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:31 A.M., Redmond
Thirty turns around and looks at his fallen companion in the back seat. He had been too quiet, and Thirty hadn't wanted to look, but now he sees the dwarf he barely knew sitting there with a hole in his head. A muttered curse in Japanese escapes his lips involuntarily, and thoughts race through his head in a jumbled stream. There goes our magical support. I'll have to get the blood and brains cleaned out of the car somehow, and get the window fixed. Did Heka have next of kin? I better tell Mrs. J. Damn those stupid gangers. He leans the seat back, reaches over and carefully closes Heka's eyes without getting blood on his fingers, then pulls him into a prone position so that he's not so easily visible from outside the car.
To Professor, he says, "This job is getting worse all the time. Our coffin-dweller better have some answers, for his sake." He is glad that he will be playing the role of bad-ork; it suits his current mood.
He opens an AR window and hastily composes a message. <@Team: Heka is dead, gangers. ETA at coffin hotel: 1 minute.>
9:32 A.M., Redmond
As they arrive, Thirty rolls down the passenger window in case he needs to fire out of it. He keeps his gun in his hand, finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. His face is a mask of neutrality, but his eyes smolder as they scan the surroundings for threats.
Thirty turns around and looks at his fallen companion in the back seat. He had been too quiet, and Thirty hadn't wanted to look, but now he sees the dwarf he barely knew sitting there with a hole in his head. A muttered curse in Japanese escapes his lips involuntarily, and thoughts race through his head in a jumbled stream. There goes our magical support. I'll have to get the blood and brains cleaned out of the car somehow, and get the window fixed. Did Heka have next of kin? I better tell Mrs. J. Damn those stupid gangers. He leans the seat back, reaches over and carefully closes Heka's eyes without getting blood on his fingers, then pulls him into a prone position so that he's not so easily visible from outside the car.
To Professor, he says, "This job is getting worse all the time. Our coffin-dweller better have some answers, for his sake." He is glad that he will be playing the role of bad-ork; it suits his current mood.
He opens an AR window and hastily composes a message. <@Team: Heka is dead, gangers. ETA at coffin hotel: 1 minute.>
9:32 A.M., Redmond
As they arrive, Thirty rolls down the passenger window in case he needs to fire out of it. He keeps his gun in his hand, finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. His face is a mask of neutrality, but his eyes smolder as they scan the surroundings for threats.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32 A.M., Redmond
Ferret tries to ignore the blinking envelope icon in the corner of his vision. Watch the road dumbass, not your fragging mail. He blinks his inbox shut with an effort, while accelerating the van and dodging potholes.
<<Glad you could make it. Our target's on the move. Might just be coincidence but the biker I'm following left the motel shortly after. Check with Oswald, he's got more intel than me right now.>>
Ferret tries to ignore the blinking envelope icon in the corner of his vision. Watch the road dumbass, not your fragging mail. He blinks his inbox shut with an effort, while accelerating the van and dodging potholes.
<<Glad you could make it. Our target's on the move. Might just be coincidence but the biker I'm following left the motel shortly after. Check with Oswald, he's got more intel than me right now.>>
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32 A.M., Redmond
Professor parks the car where it has as much of a view as possible. <<Oswald. We're here in the parking lot. What's the target's room, and are there any others in the motel right now?>>
Professor parks the car where it has as much of a view as possible. <<Oswald. We're here in the parking lot. What's the target's room, and are there any others in the motel right now?>>
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32:10 AM, Oswald's GTS Tower, "Sky-pod," hanging approx. 80m above Redmond
After a long night of waiting, the chaos of the current situation was exactly what Oswald needed. He was feeling awake and alive in ways which had escaped him for some time now. The thrill of discovery pounding over and over again against the rocky shores of presumption. Everything is new and happening, right now.
<<Professor! Situation inside is the same as it was last night, barring this bike. If you want a better picture of what's up, give us a minute while Ferret and I put the screws to this guy who just came out. Ferret! If I have to kill the target's bike, he is not going to be happy. I don't put much stock in this guy's instinct for self-preservation either. If I knock the sucker down, you have to do what it takes to insure that he doesn't get a chance to contact his friends. If he pulls a side-arm, I can blow it out his hand, but there is a distinct chance that he'll fight you, to the death. Are you prepared to kill this man?>>
Oswald had meanwhile maneuvered his craft behind the motorcycle, tracing its path. He took a fraction of a thought and locked onto the man's rear wheel. Unlike the last several times he had found himself staring at his targeting menu, he wasn't doing this out of an unconscious sense of aggression or even a conscious feeling of rage. Right now, he was a surgeon. And he was set to remove a scumbag from his bike.
<<Alright Ferret. Ready to fire on your word.>>
After a long night of waiting, the chaos of the current situation was exactly what Oswald needed. He was feeling awake and alive in ways which had escaped him for some time now. The thrill of discovery pounding over and over again against the rocky shores of presumption. Everything is new and happening, right now.
<<Professor! Situation inside is the same as it was last night, barring this bike. If you want a better picture of what's up, give us a minute while Ferret and I put the screws to this guy who just came out. Ferret! If I have to kill the target's bike, he is not going to be happy. I don't put much stock in this guy's instinct for self-preservation either. If I knock the sucker down, you have to do what it takes to insure that he doesn't get a chance to contact his friends. If he pulls a side-arm, I can blow it out his hand, but there is a distinct chance that he'll fight you, to the death. Are you prepared to kill this man?>>
Oswald had meanwhile maneuvered his craft behind the motorcycle, tracing its path. He took a fraction of a thought and locked onto the man's rear wheel. Unlike the last several times he had found himself staring at his targeting menu, he wasn't doing this out of an unconscious sense of aggression or even a conscious feeling of rage. Right now, he was a surgeon. And he was set to remove a scumbag from his bike.
<<Alright Ferret. Ready to fire on your word.>>
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32:15 AM, Hot on the tail of biker dude, bad part of Redmond
Ferret's van bumps along the street after the biker and disappears around the corner.
<Oswald, I live down here. If it comes down to him or me, it ain't gonna be me chummer. Ready when you are.>
Ferret's van bumps along the street after the biker and disappears around the corner.
<Oswald, I live down here. If it comes down to him or me, it ain't gonna be me chummer. Ready when you are.>
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32 A.M., Redmond
<<OK. Thirty and I will wait here while you chase down the biker. We'll enter the building after we hear from you about the biker.>>
"So Thirty, do you have anything with which to cover Heka?"
<<OK. Thirty and I will wait here while you chase down the biker. We'll enter the building after we hear from you about the biker.>>
"So Thirty, do you have anything with which to cover Heka?"
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32:18 AM, Oswald's GTS Tower, "Sky-pod," hanging approx. 80m above Redmond
<<Going hot.>>
Save for the crack of the bullet going supersonic, the sound of the silenced shot was almost imperceptible. The effect, however, was immediately noticeable. The large slug tore into the bike's chassis right by the rear wheel, mangling the poor bike's operation.
<<Going hot.>>
Save for the crack of the bullet going supersonic, the sound of the silenced shot was almost imperceptible. The effect, however, was immediately noticeable. The large slug tore into the bike's chassis right by the rear wheel, mangling the poor bike's operation.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32 A.M., Redmond
Thirty glances back at Heka once again. "I guess we'll have to use his coat," he says, then adds, "Can you give me a hand? I'll lift him up, you pull his coat off, and we'll drape it over him."
Thirty holsters his Predator, opens all the car's doors with a mental command and gets out, moving to the rear passenger doorwell. He crouches next to the car and slips his right arm into the dead dwarf's coat collar and beneath his torso. With his left hand, he grabs the bottom of the open door for leverage, then lifts the comparatively tiny man a few inches into the air so that Professor can easily slip his greatcoat off from the other side. While doing so, he fixes his vision on Heka's chest, not wanting to stare at a dead man's face, and he focuses on his hearing, alert for sounds of approaching danger while he and Professor hastily cover up the corpse of their fallen companion.
When it is done, Thirty gently sets Heka's body down, takes a disinfectant wipe from the pack in his pocket and cleans the blood off as best he can. In the Shinto faith that Benichi was raised in, the blood of the dead is impure, and despite not being very religious, he does not want to anger Heka's spirit, the spirit of a mage, by wearing his blood on his jacket. He tosses the bloody wipe on the ground beneath the car and, before closing the door, finally looks at Heka's face and whispers, "Gomen." I should do more, he thinks, but there isn't time.
Thirty stands and turns to face the entrance to the burnt-out coffin motel. Maintaining his neutral expression, he says, "Let's do this."
Thirty glances back at Heka once again. "I guess we'll have to use his coat," he says, then adds, "Can you give me a hand? I'll lift him up, you pull his coat off, and we'll drape it over him."
Thirty holsters his Predator, opens all the car's doors with a mental command and gets out, moving to the rear passenger doorwell. He crouches next to the car and slips his right arm into the dead dwarf's coat collar and beneath his torso. With his left hand, he grabs the bottom of the open door for leverage, then lifts the comparatively tiny man a few inches into the air so that Professor can easily slip his greatcoat off from the other side. While doing so, he fixes his vision on Heka's chest, not wanting to stare at a dead man's face, and he focuses on his hearing, alert for sounds of approaching danger while he and Professor hastily cover up the corpse of their fallen companion.
When it is done, Thirty gently sets Heka's body down, takes a disinfectant wipe from the pack in his pocket and cleans the blood off as best he can. In the Shinto faith that Benichi was raised in, the blood of the dead is impure, and despite not being very religious, he does not want to anger Heka's spirit, the spirit of a mage, by wearing his blood on his jacket. He tosses the bloody wipe on the ground beneath the car and, before closing the door, finally looks at Heka's face and whispers, "Gomen." I should do more, he thinks, but there isn't time.
Thirty stands and turns to face the entrance to the burnt-out coffin motel. Maintaining his neutral expression, he says, "Let's do this."
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:33 A.M., Redmond
Professor thinks a moment. He understands only too well Thirty's desire to get away from the back seat of the car. "Do you want to go in before we hear from the others about the biker?"
Professor thinks a moment. He understands only too well Thirty's desire to get away from the back seat of the car. "Do you want to go in before we hear from the others about the biker?"
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:33 A.M., Redmond
Thirty replies in a near-whisper, "We can wait if you want, but I figure if it's him, they'll let us know, and if he's still in there," he tilts his head slightly towards the motel, "we'll let them know. We won't be able to catch up to a guy on a bike anyway; he can outrun us easy and go places the car won't fit. And if he ends up on foot, we'll have plenty of time to get to him as long as our eyes in the sky can keep track of him."
Thirty replies in a near-whisper, "We can wait if you want, but I figure if it's him, they'll let us know, and if he's still in there," he tilts his head slightly towards the motel, "we'll let them know. We won't be able to catch up to a guy on a bike anyway; he can outrun us easy and go places the car won't fit. And if he ends up on foot, we'll have plenty of time to get to him as long as our eyes in the sky can keep track of him."
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:33 A.M., Redmond
With a similarly lowered voice, Professor answers Thirty. "OK. Let's go." <<THirty and I decided to go in now. Let's keep each other appraised of developments.>>
Professor opens his perception to the astral as they progress to the building and into it. Inside he draws his pistol. When they arrive at the location Oswald described, he takes up position on one side of the door, Thirty on the other. Professor nods to Thirty and indicates with his head that rapid entry is up to the guy with muscle.
With a similarly lowered voice, Professor answers Thirty. "OK. Let's go." <<THirty and I decided to go in now. Let's keep each other appraised of developments.>>
Professor opens his perception to the astral as they progress to the building and into it. Inside he draws his pistol. When they arrive at the location Oswald described, he takes up position on one side of the door, Thirty on the other. Professor nods to Thirty and indicates with his head that rapid entry is up to the guy with muscle.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:33 A.M., Redmond
Thirty walks casually while out in the parking lot, but once concealed from the majority of prying eyes by the hotel's charred walls, he turns to Professor and holds a single finger up to his lips. He begins going on the balls of his feet, trying avoid stepping on anything that will make noise while keeping an eye out for trouble. Once at the door, he holds up a hand and makes a staying motion towards Professor's gun as he subvocalizes, <We'll go in easy, no guns drawn, we don't want to spoil the good-cop angle. I can get mine out in a hurry if he decides to get violent. Me first.> With that, he very carefully and quietly tries the door to see if it is locked, with intent to enter if it is not.
Thirty walks casually while out in the parking lot, but once concealed from the majority of prying eyes by the hotel's charred walls, he turns to Professor and holds a single finger up to his lips. He begins going on the balls of his feet, trying avoid stepping on anything that will make noise while keeping an eye out for trouble. Once at the door, he holds up a hand and makes a staying motion towards Professor's gun as he subvocalizes, <We'll go in easy, no guns drawn, we don't want to spoil the good-cop angle. I can get mine out in a hurry if he decides to get violent. Me first.> With that, he very carefully and quietly tries the door to see if it is locked, with intent to enter if it is not.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:33 A.M., Redmond
Happy to let someone else take over in this kind of thing, Professor nods, holsters his pistol and waits by the door.
Happy to let someone else take over in this kind of thing, Professor nods, holsters his pistol and waits by the door.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32:18 AM, Oswald's GTS Tower, "Sky-pod," hanging approx. 80m above Redmond
The tower's sensors followed the bike with green reticles that suddenly flashed to red. The barrel of the rifle "piffed" almost silently above the city. The "ting" through the biker's back tire and "crack" on the pavement startled the rider off the road just as much as the flailing rubber. The bike took a hard right and somersaulted over a jagged curb.The driver was launched over the handlebars and into the plastcrete wall of a burned out office building. His body sat halfway up and slumped back to the ground. A few people on the street were watching the crash in shock, but most ducked out of sight at the first opportunity.
At the motel
The inside of the motel somehow managed to look worse than the exterior. As Professor and Thirty entered the front door, they found themselves in what must have been the lobby. Some of the walls of the ground floor rooms seemed to have been knocked down to make more space. Several bikes of different styles were parked by the door. there were eight men sitting around on ragged furniture. Four of them sat around a coffee table covered in stuffer shack junk food scrounging leftovers for breakfast. The other men were at a table in the corner with a box of slap patches and a few plastic jugs of unknown liquids. There were shotguns and pistols on the tables and chairs and stuffed into their pants. They watched as the newcommers entered and drew a pistol. Both sides seemed to be caught by surprise and an unspoken ceasefire seemed to hold until the two runners made it up the stairwell. The second floor seemed deserted, at least in the hall, but small noises could be heard behined closed doors, and downstairs there was some murmuring,"What the fuck was that about?". Thirty listened at the door they were directed to. There was nothing. He checked the handle. It was unlocked. The door gave way without a squeek, but inside was nothing but a ratty bed and an empty bag of soy'rinds.
The tower's sensors followed the bike with green reticles that suddenly flashed to red. The barrel of the rifle "piffed" almost silently above the city. The "ting" through the biker's back tire and "crack" on the pavement startled the rider off the road just as much as the flailing rubber. The bike took a hard right and somersaulted over a jagged curb.The driver was launched over the handlebars and into the plastcrete wall of a burned out office building. His body sat halfway up and slumped back to the ground. A few people on the street were watching the crash in shock, but most ducked out of sight at the first opportunity.
At the motel
The inside of the motel somehow managed to look worse than the exterior. As Professor and Thirty entered the front door, they found themselves in what must have been the lobby. Some of the walls of the ground floor rooms seemed to have been knocked down to make more space. Several bikes of different styles were parked by the door. there were eight men sitting around on ragged furniture. Four of them sat around a coffee table covered in stuffer shack junk food scrounging leftovers for breakfast. The other men were at a table in the corner with a box of slap patches and a few plastic jugs of unknown liquids. There were shotguns and pistols on the tables and chairs and stuffed into their pants. They watched as the newcommers entered and drew a pistol. Both sides seemed to be caught by surprise and an unspoken ceasefire seemed to hold until the two runners made it up the stairwell. The second floor seemed deserted, at least in the hall, but small noises could be heard behined closed doors, and downstairs there was some murmuring,"What the fuck was that about?". Thirty listened at the door they were directed to. There was nothing. He checked the handle. It was unlocked. The door gave way without a squeek, but inside was nothing but a ratty bed and an empty bag of soy'rinds.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:45 AM Downtown Seattle Near Redmond Border
I smell a new game young one. follow me and I will show you.
I smell a new game young one. follow me and I will show you.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:45 AM Downtown Seattle Near Redmond Border
Stephen was about to sigh and remind Coyote that he was in fact 28, the usual snark he shared with the Grandfather about being called "young one" or "kid", but the offer of a new game made him rub his chin in thought. If Coyote didn't care that he left his lodge sloppy with offer of a new trick to see or pull, that was just fine by him. Pulling his pistol into the holster the dusty black jacket provided, he swirled it around him like a cloak as he slipped it on, wondering what misadventure he was about to get himself into. Well he couldn't just refuse, could he? Twirling his keyring on his finger, he stepped out the door, locking it behind him and headed towards the morning air with a smile.
"New game, hmm? It had better be better than that time I nearly ended up getting exiled from Council Island because you thought it was cute I try to knock up a chief's daughter."
Sniffing the air as he walked from the apartment complex, he tensed a bit, readying himself for the outside world. Cracking his knuckles, he readied his fingers in case he needed to coax something from the spirits as he walked in the direction Coyote indicated.
Stephen was about to sigh and remind Coyote that he was in fact 28, the usual snark he shared with the Grandfather about being called "young one" or "kid", but the offer of a new game made him rub his chin in thought. If Coyote didn't care that he left his lodge sloppy with offer of a new trick to see or pull, that was just fine by him. Pulling his pistol into the holster the dusty black jacket provided, he swirled it around him like a cloak as he slipped it on, wondering what misadventure he was about to get himself into. Well he couldn't just refuse, could he? Twirling his keyring on his finger, he stepped out the door, locking it behind him and headed towards the morning air with a smile.
"New game, hmm? It had better be better than that time I nearly ended up getting exiled from Council Island because you thought it was cute I try to knock up a chief's daughter."
Sniffing the air as he walked from the apartment complex, he tensed a bit, readying himself for the outside world. Cracking his knuckles, he readied his fingers in case he needed to coax something from the spirits as he walked in the direction Coyote indicated.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:32:28 AM, Redmond
Ferret is already pulling the van to a stop as the biker tumbles through the air and smacks into the wall. Ouch, that's gotta hurt. Hope he's not dead.
By the time the biker is struggling and failing to get back up, he is already out the van, gun in his hand. Stuffing a set of plastic restraints into his pocket, he closes the van's door and slaves it's node to his commlink. Then he scurries over to the ganger and keeping him covered with his machine pistol, kicks his foot to see if he gets a response.
"That was a nasty tumble you took there pal. You're lucky to be alive. If you want to stay that way, then you better not give me any trouble, capisce?"
Pressing his gun against the biker's chest, he proceeds to give him a quick pat down, checking him for weapons, his commlink and ID.
Ferret is already pulling the van to a stop as the biker tumbles through the air and smacks into the wall. Ouch, that's gotta hurt. Hope he's not dead.
By the time the biker is struggling and failing to get back up, he is already out the van, gun in his hand. Stuffing a set of plastic restraints into his pocket, he closes the van's door and slaves it's node to his commlink. Then he scurries over to the ganger and keeping him covered with his machine pistol, kicks his foot to see if he gets a response.
"That was a nasty tumble you took there pal. You're lucky to be alive. If you want to stay that way, then you better not give me any trouble, capisce?"
Pressing his gun against the biker's chest, he proceeds to give him a quick pat down, checking him for weapons, his commlink and ID.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:34 AM, the coffin motel
It is disappointing that the quarry had fled. In the back of Professor's mind, possible options for dealing with the alerted gangers downstairs circle the drain of impracticality. Here, however, he decides to do a little on-the-job training. He had been studying the Psychometry meta-magic, and felt this was a skill that could be applied to both the shadows and archaeology. So, while he had not opened himself to the deep mysteries yet, he could still try to catch some glimmer of the aura left in the room. He focuses his Assensing to look for lingering traces.
It is disappointing that the quarry had fled. In the back of Professor's mind, possible options for dealing with the alerted gangers downstairs circle the drain of impracticality. Here, however, he decides to do a little on-the-job training. He had been studying the Psychometry meta-magic, and felt this was a skill that could be applied to both the shadows and archaeology. So, while he had not opened himself to the deep mysteries yet, he could still try to catch some glimmer of the aura left in the room. He focuses his Assensing to look for lingering traces.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:34 AM, the coffin motel
Thirty paces back and forth in the tiny room, arms half-folded, stroking his chin. Somehow they had made their way past a room full of gangers in the lobby, but he thought it highly unlikely they would slip out again so easily. Soon, he imagines, they will be saying things like "our turf" and "those two fraggers," and they will get their guns and come looking for he and Professor. While Professor investigates the room, Thirty alerts the rest of the team to their current predicament. <Our target is not in the motel, but a bunch of armed gangers are here, between us and the exit. We're going to look for an alternate way out, but a distraction for the gangers would be welcome.>
Drawing his gun, he takes up a position at the door, watching and listening for trouble while wracking his brain trying to figure another way out of the place.
Thirty paces back and forth in the tiny room, arms half-folded, stroking his chin. Somehow they had made their way past a room full of gangers in the lobby, but he thought it highly unlikely they would slip out again so easily. Soon, he imagines, they will be saying things like "our turf" and "those two fraggers," and they will get their guns and come looking for he and Professor. While Professor investigates the room, Thirty alerts the rest of the team to their current predicament. <Our target is not in the motel, but a bunch of armed gangers are here, between us and the exit. We're going to look for an alternate way out, but a distraction for the gangers would be welcome.>
Drawing his gun, he takes up a position at the door, watching and listening for trouble while wracking his brain trying to figure another way out of the place.
4:15 AM, Friday, September 11, 2071, the coffin motel in astral space.
The nosferatu was a bit irked that this human was being snooty with him. His elemental-channeled voice took on a slightly more sarcastic, deadpan tone.
"Obviously. I'm sure they will be quite enlightened by your thaumaturgical revelation. But who said anything about seeing auras through solids?"
Jovan took a brief moment to create two watchers from the fabric of astral space. This first one he attuned to the aura of the sleeping man in whom Oswald was so interested. The second, which gave him a headache to summon that he'd need to sleep off soon, he attuned to the aura of one of the augmented fellows still awake on the ground floor. Hark, he told the two ethereal tools. Pay close attention to your respective targets, and alert me if they engage in any unusual behavior. If they leave the building, follow them.
"As I said before, there are no magical threats to you in this immediate area. No Awakened sleep in that motel. However, on the ground floor there are some men still awake, with patchy holes in their auras. Implants, most likely. They all have some sort of stimulant drug in their bodies. As for your target... he is not Long Legs, as far as I can tell. This man is human; he is no troll. However, I find it unlikely that he is local to Redmond - he is in unusually good health for a resident of this place. He possesses a cyberleg of some sort. He seems to be hiding something; he is greatly troubled. I have placed him under spirit surveillance for the next few hours. I will leave my tools to their work here for the moment; I have some contemplation to do. You know how to contact me if necessary."
With an abruptness bordering on the rude, Jovan removed himself from this misery-infested place in Glow City and raced himself back home to the safety of Tacoma.
Unfortunately, I must now inform you that I must now contemplate my circumstances alone. You have no place in such personal time. I release you. You may go, he said to the consciousness elemental as he raced like lightning back to his body.
The nosferatu was a bit irked that this human was being snooty with him. His elemental-channeled voice took on a slightly more sarcastic, deadpan tone.
"Obviously. I'm sure they will be quite enlightened by your thaumaturgical revelation. But who said anything about seeing auras through solids?"
Jovan took a brief moment to create two watchers from the fabric of astral space. This first one he attuned to the aura of the sleeping man in whom Oswald was so interested. The second, which gave him a headache to summon that he'd need to sleep off soon, he attuned to the aura of one of the augmented fellows still awake on the ground floor. Hark, he told the two ethereal tools. Pay close attention to your respective targets, and alert me if they engage in any unusual behavior. If they leave the building, follow them.
"As I said before, there are no magical threats to you in this immediate area. No Awakened sleep in that motel. However, on the ground floor there are some men still awake, with patchy holes in their auras. Implants, most likely. They all have some sort of stimulant drug in their bodies. As for your target... he is not Long Legs, as far as I can tell. This man is human; he is no troll. However, I find it unlikely that he is local to Redmond - he is in unusually good health for a resident of this place. He possesses a cyberleg of some sort. He seems to be hiding something; he is greatly troubled. I have placed him under spirit surveillance for the next few hours. I will leave my tools to their work here for the moment; I have some contemplation to do. You know how to contact me if necessary."
With an abruptness bordering on the rude, Jovan removed himself from this misery-infested place in Glow City and raced himself back home to the safety of Tacoma.
Unfortunately, I must now inform you that I must now contemplate my circumstances alone. You have no place in such personal time. I release you. You may go, he said to the consciousness elemental as he raced like lightning back to his body.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 4:15 AM, Oswald's GTS Tower, "Sky-pod," hanging approx. 80m above Redmond
"Good intel. Thanks. I'll...
With that the spirit was gone.. and Oswald was alone with his snappy retorts.
"...leave the sass to the expert next time I guess.."
<<Danny! How many mages does it take to screw in a light bulb?>>
<<No, Why?>>
<<Oh, come on Danny, play along!>>
<<Pain in the ass.>>
<<Now that's not fair, you know I'm working now. I'll fix you up later. Better than new.>>
<<What're you watching?>>
<<Honestly, I have no idea. Apparently some guy slumming in Nuke city with a dead man's comlink. I'm going to be spending all night locked in this metal box with no one to talk to but you.>>
<<Only thing you can do. Accept it.>>
<<Heh.. The answer was zero... They just make a spirit do it for them...>>
<<Shit's not funny anymore.>>
<<..Yeah. I'll keep working on 'em.>>
<<... So... What'll we do the rest of the day, Captain Riggs?>>
<<Well, I've got to post up a report of Jovan's findings. That should take all of thirty seconds. After that, I'm fresh out of ideas. Should probably get some coding done or dig into this new program Softy sold me.>>
<<People have a right to do whatever makes 'em happy.>>
<<Bye Danny...>>
<<@Yacht Club - Astral surveillance report follows...>>
Oswald transcribed Jovan's report for the VPN and then dove into the Decrypt program's code for a quick debugging... having forgot to hit "send".
"Good intel. Thanks. I'll...
With that the spirit was gone.. and Oswald was alone with his snappy retorts.
"...leave the sass to the expert next time I guess.."
<<Danny! How many mages does it take to screw in a light bulb?>>
<<No, Why?>>
<<Oh, come on Danny, play along!>>
<<Pain in the ass.>>
<<Now that's not fair, you know I'm working now. I'll fix you up later. Better than new.>>
<<What're you watching?>>
<<Honestly, I have no idea. Apparently some guy slumming in Nuke city with a dead man's comlink. I'm going to be spending all night locked in this metal box with no one to talk to but you.>>
<<Only thing you can do. Accept it.>>
<<Heh.. The answer was zero... They just make a spirit do it for them...>>
<<Shit's not funny anymore.>>
<<..Yeah. I'll keep working on 'em.>>
<<... So... What'll we do the rest of the day, Captain Riggs?>>
<<Well, I've got to post up a report of Jovan's findings. That should take all of thirty seconds. After that, I'm fresh out of ideas. Should probably get some coding done or dig into this new program Softy sold me.>>
<<People have a right to do whatever makes 'em happy.>>
<<Bye Danny...>>
<<@Yacht Club - Astral surveillance report follows...>>
Oswald transcribed Jovan's report for the VPN and then dove into the Decrypt program's code for a quick debugging... having forgot to hit "send".
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:34 AM, the coffin motel
Thirty crouches in the doorway and risks a short peek into the hall to check out the window there. The drop down to the ground would hurt, but maybe less than getting shot by drugged-up gangers. The glass is broken, but what remains could cut someone trying to use the window as an exit. Kanjin could clear the way, he thinks, and either way, I may need its strength. Shifting his pistol into his left hand, he reaches back over his shoulder with his right and touches Kanjin's grip.
Shinto teaches that all objects in the physical world have a spiritual representation, and his weapon focus is no exception; indeed, its kami is exalted due to the sword's magical power. Thirty activates the focus with a polite and silent prayer, Tetsudatte itadakitai to omotte orimasu. A tingling sensation builds in Thirty's fingertips and shoots down his arm, and he knows that the blade is ready to cleave whatever may oppose him.
In a low voice, he asks Professor, "How do you feel about jumping out of a second story window?"
Thirty crouches in the doorway and risks a short peek into the hall to check out the window there. The drop down to the ground would hurt, but maybe less than getting shot by drugged-up gangers. The glass is broken, but what remains could cut someone trying to use the window as an exit. Kanjin could clear the way, he thinks, and either way, I may need its strength. Shifting his pistol into his left hand, he reaches back over his shoulder with his right and touches Kanjin's grip.
Shinto teaches that all objects in the physical world have a spiritual representation, and his weapon focus is no exception; indeed, its kami is exalted due to the sword's magical power. Thirty activates the focus with a polite and silent prayer, Tetsudatte itadakitai to omotte orimasu. A tingling sensation builds in Thirty's fingertips and shoots down his arm, and he knows that the blade is ready to cleave whatever may oppose him.
In a low voice, he asks Professor, "How do you feel about jumping out of a second story window?"
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:34 AM, the coffin motel
What scant information Professor gleaned from the astral traces left in the room was still rolling around in the back of his mind. He came back to physical space fully. No distractions, now, buddy. He looked out the window to the ground below. "Probably hurt less than a hail of bullets. Let's go for it. You first." He grins at Thirty.
What scant information Professor gleaned from the astral traces left in the room was still rolling around in the back of his mind. He came back to physical space fully. No distractions, now, buddy. He looked out the window to the ground below. "Probably hurt less than a hail of bullets. Let's go for it. You first." He grins at Thirty.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29 AM, Jovan's home, Tacoma
Jovan's headache had subsided with a quick nap. He was awakened by his watcher spirit attuned to the target. The one legged man is on the move. The spirit followed the man onto the bike, and then into a wall, and now sprawling on the street.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:34 AM, the coffin motel
The motel is still quiet, considering the amount of gunpowder on the premises. Professor takes a look at the astral space of the room. Among the bacteria that glimmers in the shadows, Professor catches a trace of the aura that slept in this bed. He feels an impression of anxiety. The flash of a crowded club and an Asian woman with gaunt features. As Thirty and Professor discuss exodus via the window, the echo of footsteps begin to move cautiously up the stairs.
Ferret kicks the leg of the biker with no response. The man looks pretty large up close. He has dark skin, which Ferret can only see at the neck. Patting him down is tricky, due to the Bike racing armor and padding. Once Ferret gets a few straps and zippers open, He finds a Colt Asp in matt black and a green CMT "clip" commlink straight off the shelf, with a data chip slotted in the side. He also notices, while he's got the suit open that the rider is still breathing. His limbs aren't twisted in odd directions, and there's no massive blood loss yet, but its hard to tell much more with the helmet and racing gear.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:45 AM Downtown Seattle Near Redmond Border
If you're going in the flesh, I would recommend some transport.
In front of Acme stands a man in a long coat. His face is wrinkled and half hidden by a brown beard leaning over his lapel. He's in mid argument with a cab driver,"I'm offering double here"
The cabbie, a short and pale figure with an eastern euro vibe, scoffed,"I got a wife to go home to, find another cab man"
Jovan's headache had subsided with a quick nap. He was awakened by his watcher spirit attuned to the target. The one legged man is on the move. The spirit followed the man onto the bike, and then into a wall, and now sprawling on the street.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:34 AM, the coffin motel
The motel is still quiet, considering the amount of gunpowder on the premises. Professor takes a look at the astral space of the room. Among the bacteria that glimmers in the shadows, Professor catches a trace of the aura that slept in this bed. He feels an impression of anxiety. The flash of a crowded club and an Asian woman with gaunt features. As Thirty and Professor discuss exodus via the window, the echo of footsteps begin to move cautiously up the stairs.
Ferret kicks the leg of the biker with no response. The man looks pretty large up close. He has dark skin, which Ferret can only see at the neck. Patting him down is tricky, due to the Bike racing armor and padding. Once Ferret gets a few straps and zippers open, He finds a Colt Asp in matt black and a green CMT "clip" commlink straight off the shelf, with a data chip slotted in the side. He also notices, while he's got the suit open that the rider is still breathing. His limbs aren't twisted in odd directions, and there's no massive blood loss yet, but its hard to tell much more with the helmet and racing gear.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:45 AM Downtown Seattle Near Redmond Border
If you're going in the flesh, I would recommend some transport.
In front of Acme stands a man in a long coat. His face is wrinkled and half hidden by a brown beard leaning over his lapel. He's in mid argument with a cab driver,"I'm offering double here"
The cabbie, a short and pale figure with an eastern euro vibe, scoffed,"I got a wife to go home to, find another cab man"
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:45 AM Downtown Seattle Near Redmond Border
Acme shrugged. Coyote hadn't indicated if he wanted to follow in spirit or flesh, so what was he going to do? He chuckled softly as he walked down the stairs, then nearly ran into the man arguing with the cabbie. Walking over to the driver's side, he figured that there was something up with this situation, if the cabbie was talking about a wife to get to. He knocked on the glass. "Psst, hey pal, I'll give ya twenty to let me sneak behind you, that way you can stop worrying about Grandpa over there."
Acme shrugged. Coyote hadn't indicated if he wanted to follow in spirit or flesh, so what was he going to do? He chuckled softly as he walked down the stairs, then nearly ran into the man arguing with the cabbie. Walking over to the driver's side, he figured that there was something up with this situation, if the cabbie was talking about a wife to get to. He knocked on the glass. "Psst, hey pal, I'll give ya twenty to let me sneak behind you, that way you can stop worrying about Grandpa over there."
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:29 AM, Jovan's home, TacomaJovan sat up from his armchair where he had fallen asleep a couple hours ago. His eyes were drawn to the virtual document he had been working on, which was still floating in the center of his vision, waiting for further commands. The contents of the document went something like this:
Long Legs- whereabouts unknown. Well hidden. Several parties looking for him. Implies skilled ability to hide. Threat level unknown. May have magical backup.
Mr. & Mrs. Johnson- identity unknown. Abilities unknown. Highly untrustworthy. Betrayal probable. Must prepare accordingly. Should investigate exact details of bay meeting. If local, GLL may know something.
Oswald- untrustworthy. Possibly senile. Abilities likely revolve around vehicular and informational support. Not Awakened. Betrayal probability uncertain. Should keep alive if preferable. May fall easily to magical firepower - exploit if killing him becomes necessary. Should attempt to follow to residence.
Professor- not enough information available. Abilities likely revolve around observation, analysis, comprehension. Residence unknown. May be difficult to surprise. May be most likely to notice HMHVV-positivity. Avoid if possible. First target if betrayal occurs. Reduces chances of alerting others to contingency plan if first to die. Moniker meaning unclear - should investigate.
Thirty- likely most combat-ready member. Balanced between ranged and close combat. Avoid direct engagement if betrayal occurs. Save for last. If possible, find and influence close companions to kill if needed. Probably untrustworthy.
Heka- magician. Abilities may be similar to own. Overwhelming with spirit firepower may be best option if betrayal occurs. Avoid if possible. Should feed heavily before engaging
Checking his messages, Jovan was slightly relieved to see that Heka had been terminated, if only because that was one less person who would try to kill him. Seems he had already been replaced, however. On one hand, Jovan was slightly impressed with the speed with which runners were replaced in this team. On the other, it bothered him that an unusually high number of runners seemed to be getting geeked. Something was wrong with that situation. 'Gangers' were a bit too random and uncoordinated for something like this. He smelled something conspiratorial about the whole affair. Still, he took a moment to add 'terminated' to Heka's entry in his notes, and to make a new entry for this Skunk, or Furball, or whatever it was the fellow called himself.
Ferret- not enough information available. Abilities may revolve around information-gathering. May be Matrix- or socially-oriented. More information needed before contingencies can be developed
Jovan rose from his chair and headed upstairs, yelling at his kitchen to make him a soykaf and something to eat. He had had enough rest, and soon it would be time to get back to work.
Keep your eyes on him. I will be there shortly.
9:33, Jovan's study, Tacoma
His palate sated for the moment, Jovan sank back into his favorite armchair, closed his amber eyes, and let his mind sail away at the speed of thought back to the miserable Redmond motel.
Long Legs- whereabouts unknown. Well hidden. Several parties looking for him. Implies skilled ability to hide. Threat level unknown. May have magical backup.
Mr. & Mrs. Johnson- identity unknown. Abilities unknown. Highly untrustworthy. Betrayal probable. Must prepare accordingly. Should investigate exact details of bay meeting. If local, GLL may know something.
Oswald- untrustworthy. Possibly senile. Abilities likely revolve around vehicular and informational support. Not Awakened. Betrayal probability uncertain. Should keep alive if preferable. May fall easily to magical firepower - exploit if killing him becomes necessary. Should attempt to follow to residence.
Professor- not enough information available. Abilities likely revolve around observation, analysis, comprehension. Residence unknown. May be difficult to surprise. May be most likely to notice HMHVV-positivity. Avoid if possible. First target if betrayal occurs. Reduces chances of alerting others to contingency plan if first to die. Moniker meaning unclear - should investigate.
Thirty- likely most combat-ready member. Balanced between ranged and close combat. Avoid direct engagement if betrayal occurs. Save for last. If possible, find and influence close companions to kill if needed. Probably untrustworthy.
Heka- magician. Abilities may be similar to own. Overwhelming with spirit firepower may be best option if betrayal occurs. Avoid if possible. Should feed heavily before engaging
Checking his messages, Jovan was slightly relieved to see that Heka had been terminated, if only because that was one less person who would try to kill him. Seems he had already been replaced, however. On one hand, Jovan was slightly impressed with the speed with which runners were replaced in this team. On the other, it bothered him that an unusually high number of runners seemed to be getting geeked. Something was wrong with that situation. 'Gangers' were a bit too random and uncoordinated for something like this. He smelled something conspiratorial about the whole affair. Still, he took a moment to add 'terminated' to Heka's entry in his notes, and to make a new entry for this Skunk, or Furball, or whatever it was the fellow called himself.
Ferret- not enough information available. Abilities may revolve around information-gathering. May be Matrix- or socially-oriented. More information needed before contingencies can be developed
Jovan rose from his chair and headed upstairs, yelling at his kitchen to make him a soykaf and something to eat. He had had enough rest, and soon it would be time to get back to work.
Keep your eyes on him. I will be there shortly.
9:33, Jovan's study, Tacoma
His palate sated for the moment, Jovan sank back into his favorite armchair, closed his amber eyes, and let his mind sail away at the speed of thought back to the miserable Redmond motel.
Friday, September 11, 2071, 9:35 AM, the coffin motel
Ferret pockets the biker's revolver. He backs off a few steps towards his van still while still keeping him covered with his machine pistol. Using his left hand, he fumbles with the controls on the commlink switching it to active mode. He opens an AR window and quickly checks the ID that it's broadcasting.
Bingo!
"Thirty, Heka, Prof. The biker is our guy. No need to check out the motel. Although, if you are still in the parking lot, check out the beat up Ford Americar sitting there. There's something covered up in the back seats that I didn't get a chance to look into. But don't hang about too long, I'm gonna need help moving this guy. He's a big fragger."
Keeping one eye on the biker, he opens his inbox and reads the message he received earlier: <@Team: Heka is dead, gangers. ETA at coffin hotel: 1 minute.>
What the frag! Life sure is cheap down here in the barrens. Almost unconsiously, he switches the fire mode of his machine pistol to burst.
Ferret pockets the biker's revolver. He backs off a few steps towards his van still while still keeping him covered with his machine pistol. Using his left hand, he fumbles with the controls on the commlink switching it to active mode. He opens an AR window and quickly checks the ID that it's broadcasting.
Bingo!
"Thirty, Heka, Prof. The biker is our guy. No need to check out the motel. Although, if you are still in the parking lot, check out the beat up Ford Americar sitting there. There's something covered up in the back seats that I didn't get a chance to look into. But don't hang about too long, I'm gonna need help moving this guy. He's a big fragger."
Keeping one eye on the biker, he opens his inbox and reads the message he received earlier: <@Team: Heka is dead, gangers. ETA at coffin hotel: 1 minute.>
What the frag! Life sure is cheap down here in the barrens. Almost unconsiously, he switches the fire mode of his machine pistol to burst.
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