It all went down with the predictability of a cliché. Your contact dropped you a line about someone with ready yen looking for a few young guns. Your contact didn’t say much – didn’t have many details to share, it sounded like – but it sounded like a solid little piece of biz.

“The Johnson wants to meet this Sunday at the Snowy Dragon restaurant in Chinatown,” your contact told you. “At 11 pm. Word on the street is he’s getting a team together for something, maybe six or eight folks. The payoff? I can’t say it’s chip-truth, but I’ve heard five thou a head, nuyen. Don’t quote me on that, though.”

Couldn’t help but check it out, right? So on the night of Sunday the 28th of March 2061, you found yourself in a backroom at the Snowy Dragon – waiting for Mr. Johnson to show up and offer you your first real shadowrun.

Maybe you weren’t a complete stranger to the shadows. Maybe you’d banged with a gang, or broken into a few houses, or maybe you’d done the odd datasteal here and there, just to see what you could get away with. But nothing like this. Nothing like 5,000 nuyen a head.

So there you were in the Snowy Dragon, after a slightly dicey trek through the cold rain into Triad territory. Red walls covered with murals of Chinese landscapes, mountains and lakes, dim light coming from a few faux-antique lanterns hung around the room. A few minutes ago, when you’d arrived, a girl in an elaborate silk gown served steaming tea and dim sum, and informed you politely that your party would join you soon.

You weren’t alone in the room. In the other chairs around the long black-lacquered table sat other folk who looked, to various degrees, like they were from the shadowy side of Boston, too. As you waited for Mr. Johnson, you glanced around, and perhaps even talked.

(OOC – Go ahead and post the little descriptions of your characters, and interact if you like. Also, I posted this in the past tense, but if ya'll would prefer using the present tense instead, that's fine with me, as long as we all end up using the same tense.)

Spaz sat uncomforatbly in the oversized charis of the Snowy Dragon. Chinese was never his favorite food, but the job seemed legit, and that was all he needed to know. He had tried to check this place our earlier, to see if it had any connections with know crime families, but he hadn't gotten far before he needed to be here. So he sat in his chair, looking over the other people gathered here.

He wasnt much himself, a dwarf with bright red hair, cut short and made spikey with gel. He wore a dark green shirt and a pair of light brown pants with worn cuffs. The only cyber you could see on him is the shiny crome of a datajack above his right ear.

Toy Killer [TK] was slouched in the chair, eating anything that was put in front of him. For an Ork TK isn't too well built, but still quite chunky compared to Elfs and Humans.
That isn't what catches your eye about him though - The bodysuit which have a flowing digital pattern going throughout the design is.
His chest has a thick vest obscuring the design on his bodysuit, covered in gang markings, urban tattooes and band stamps. The pockets on it all semm to be shut, but containing something.
His hair is closely shaven, with symbols cut into it. In front of him on the table is a bright green and yellow biking helmet that has the same design as his bodysuit, albeit just painted on and thus static.
Anyone who saw him come into the room would have noticed that he didn't walk, but slowly rolled in - His feet show signs of cybernetic enhancement, and underneath them were some roller blades, that slid into his feet when he sat down.

Tk looked about the room at the others there, seeing what kind of people appeared for 5K. He's heard stories and seen trids about runners which would treat that as chump change. But since he's a youngblood, he knew it was a nice chunk of chink.
He decided to be the first to open his mouth. For better or worse however, he wouldn't find out until later. "So, dhis is da local talent hey. Y'all any gud?" The combination of his Ork teeth and sprawl upbringing makes his speech seem unsophisticated, which meant some of the others could mistake him for being quite dim. But TK always knew that gave him the advantage.

Link sat down in one of the over-stuffed chairs that the Snowy Dragon seemed to be full of, and glanced silently over at the others assembed around the restaurant. He wasn't that much to look at, a little over 6' and his elven blood gave him a light-build as well as the pointy ears. He was dressed simply in a black shirt and dark blue jeans, with the symbol of the Ancients on a cloth tied round his right leg on the thigh. The only thing that truly made him stand out from any other elf you might see was the fact that his left-arm was cyberware, and judging by the scrapes on the finish it'd seen a few brawls in its time. Running his cybernetic fingers through his blue/black hair, he glanced round at the others the Johnson had assembled.
"Well ork, I suppose we are the local talent. As for my skill...well, if you want to test me bring it on" he said, replying to TK's question with a voice that suggested he was no stranger to sudden violence.

Once the ice was broken, Spaz seemed almost eager to talk. "Of course I'm good, and no I don't know what this meets about."

Spaz looked the elf up and down, and shifted his gaze towards the orc. "I don't suppose eiehter of you are trying to blend in, eh? First thing I'd think seeing a group like this around is that something has to be going down."

Of course presumably thats why we are here, probably everyone in this joint knows something is happening, and just know better than say anything

Spaz looked down at his own off beat clothing, and smiled At least I just look like every other college student. And thank god my father never eats here.

Azrael takes his seat in one of the chairs and leans back, not saying anything, scanning the room and looking at the people who are likely to be his partners for whatever run this is.

Azrael himself hardly looks professional. 6 feet tall, medium build, wearing all black, complete with a black armor trenchcoat, and looking like he hasn't shaved in weeks with that stubble beard. His brown hair isn't in much better shape.

So where's our Johnson? he thinks impatiently.

A hispanic man, unremarkable in appearance, walked into the restaurant. The waitress pointed him to the booth containing. His street name was Jones, though that was quite obviously not his real name. He had just immigrated from Aztlan two months ago, and he didn't know anyone in town other than his coworkers. He had been lucky to hear about this run from an inebriated snitch in a dingy bar. He had left Aztlan a couple months ago when most of his go-gang back home was killed in an SUV rollover accident. Despite being a SINless foreigner unfamiliar with UCAS culture, he had managed to get a part-time job as a mechanic at a local shop which serviced drones and rigged vehicles, as well as more "pedestrian" vehicles. But at 10 hours a week, that job was barely paying the bills. He had been planning to try his hand at running the Shadows back in Mazatlan anyway.

Sliding into the booth, Jones heard the exchange between the three runners who arrived before him. "Hey Homie," he said to the elf, "We're all on the same side here. Chill and have some herbal tea. Let's all introduce ourselves. I'm Jones, and I'll be the team rigger. How about you guys?" Jones took a sip of said herbal tea as he finished his introduction.

Ratchaser walks in just in time to hear a introduction. He quietly walks over to a seat and scans the people sitting around the table.
Standing 5'8" tall with short cropped black hair and small frame he takes note of the Elf and Orc (Gang ID test; 5,4,4,3,1). His clothes still a reflection of the Stromy Dragons go-gang from Seattle, Black on grey leather jacket with black jeans and a white t-shirt under the jacket. Having showered for the second time today he feels prepared for what is to come.As he sits he takes note that he isn't the only Latino in the room and begins assensing those around the table, looking for the dark spots and the signs of astral signatures from those with the ablility also hoping that he isn't the only one who is nervous and a little anxious (being 18 and his first time in the shadows, he's having a hard time not showing it). The phone call he recieved this morning came as a shock to him. All I did was go hang out at Jerry's Crystal and memntion to the bartender that I was looking for work. I can't believe it led me here instead of a job interview at the local burger flop. I'll have to remeber to go back and thank that chummer. If this pans out.
5 g's is what brought him here. Enough to pay the rent for the summer and a little to spare for food. I hope I can work with them.
Ratchaser looks around for the Johnson.I think they call them a "Johnson", I hope to Cat I don't screw anything up.
"Ohla, nombre es Ratchaser. I hope I'm in the right place."
(OOC: Ratchaser has 4(of 6) dice set for spell defense. no weapons on him for the moment).

Nearly two blocks from the Snowy Dragon, a rusting '38 Eurovan clumsily pulls over to the side of the road. When the side door slides open, the innocent bystandards nearby are assaulted by a drunken bastardization of the Spicy McHaggis Jig sung by a quartet of plastered Scotsmen and an Irish dwarf. Much to the dismay of an eldery traveling restrarunteer closing his cart for the night (who more than makes his displeasure known by shaking a cleaver in the air at the cacophonous lot), the dwarf hops out of the van and turns to his mates just in time to finish the last chorus. "Three packs a day, he'll smoke 'til he dies! Spicy McHaggis... one hellllll of a guuuuuuuuy!" And as a final toast for the night, the skinny dwarf thrusts the bottle of Guiness he has in his left hand up in the air and bows.

"I'll be thankin' yae for the lift, lads. Next week, the tab'll be on me!" The Scots, perfect strangers only two hours ago, just smile drunkedly and sort of wave goodbye before sliding the door shut with a slam. As the van whirls off to what is most likely another pub, the dwarf's composure seems to change drastically. He uses his cherrywood shillelagh to push the brown bowler on his head to keep the rain out of his eyes a bit better, then takes a moment to button up the black naval peacoat he decided to wear this dreary eve.

"You'll 'ave to forgive the steamboats," he politely says to the perturbed restraunteer, obviously in reference to his former travelling companions. "Dey tend t'get a wee bit rowdy 'round midnight." The Chinaman pauses for a moment, confused by the sudden change in temperment, then huffs and mutters something in Mandarin as he gets on and drives his diner home for the night.

Catching only a bit of the insult just hurled his way, the dwarf simply raises a curious brow before putting it behind him. He then looks around and tries to get his bearings. "Well Jaysus Christ, those fookin' eeijets dropped me off at the wrong fookin' corner. Fookin' tossers." His brow quickly furrows, showing his displeasure at the revelation that he'll actually have to walk a bit. The horror of it all.

Deciding to make the best of a lousy situation, every step in the ten minutes that followed were accompanied by the click of his shillelagh on the ground, and every fifth step after that was accompanied by a swig from his Guiness. By the time he finally arrived at the Snowy Dragon, he was dismayed to find that he was out of beer. A flippant flick of the wrist sent the empty bottle hurtling towards a nearby garbage receptacle just before he entered the porched entrance to the eatery where he proceeded to flip his bowler dry. Tossing it back on his head, he pulled the door open and waltzed straight in only minutes after Ratchaser's arrival.

Looking around after making his entrance, he spots a motley group of sods sitting uncomfortably and making polite conversation in a shadowy corner of the joint. Pushing his derby higher on his head so that it's nearly falling off the back, he waddles over.

"Top o' the evenin' to yae, boys. The name's Tom -- Brown Tom, t'be exact -- and I'll wager on me grandmum's spirit that yae're all here for a spot of bidness, too, eh? If so, mind if I 'ave a seat with yae fine gentlemens?"

Now that he's close enough to get a good look at him, you realize that even from the perspective of other metahumans, he's a right handsome fellow... for a dwarf. A brilliant, sincere smile and twinkling green eyes belay the craggy features common to his people, and his short, coffee brown hair has grown into a healthy set of lambchops on the sides of his face. His brown derby, most likely the source of his nickname, is decorated with a black band and numerous luck charms and other bric-a-brac. His shillelagh -- a wooden cudgel of Irish origin -- is likewise decorated with numerous Celtic swirls and a silvered head. There's definitely something remarkably appealing and honest about Brown Tom even if you can't quite put your finger on it.

Brown Tom has the Good Looking & Knows It edge coupled with a sizable Charisma and Etiquette of 6, not to mention a Good Reputation though few of you would have likely recognized him.

Ratchaser tries to hide a smile. I bet he manages to get his drinks for free, when he's out and about. And assenses the new comer discretly. He has the urge to oblige the chummer with his request for a seat, but says nothing awaiting the reaction of the rest of the people.

The waitress entered once again, holding the door for an ork who settled into the chair at the head of the table. She then slipped back out of the room, after placing a new pot of tea and some fresh dim sum at the newcomer’s place.

The ork was a large fellow, at least two meters tall, with a build that suggested frequent weightlifting and possibly brawling. He seemed to be of African-American descent, and his hair is pulled back into cornrows. His steel-colored eyes looked out over the table from their deep sockets, as if he were memorizing the faces of each of you. The most curious aspect of his appearance, however, was his jacket. It was a standard-issue armored jacket – emblazoned with the Knight Errant crest on the left side of the chest and on the shoulders.

He picked up his chopsticks and consumed a dim sum with surprising dexterity for someone with such large, scarred hands. Thirsty, he went for his tea – but rather than pouring some into one of the small painted teacups, he simply flipped open the top of the silver teapot and downed about a third of the steaming beverage in one swig. He had yet to say anything to any of you, as if he were waiting for one of you to speak first.

Jones motioned the dwarf to the table. "Have a seat. I think this is the whole team. Now we are just waiting for the Johnson."

A few minutes later, the Johnson arrived. Jones decided that if the ork was going to play the nonchalant game, he could go along with it. No need to appear anxious. He motioned the waitress over. "We're ready to order now. I'd like a bowl of hot and sour soup, a plate of house fried rice, and a fizzy-cola." There. That would show the Johnson just how unexcited he was.


Past tense guys.

Ratchaser looks at the 'Johnson'. Knight Errant. Damn hope their isnt something on file on me in his hands.
Looking around Ratchaser decides to assense the resturaunt, looking for Knight Errant security. Then he Assenses the Johnson.
After taking in his information, he sees the waitress again passing their table.
"Excuza meh, I would like to have a sweet and sour chicken on fried rice. And a glass of Milk. Gracia."
I've already got a bad feeling about this. Hope Lakota (Contact:1) and the Stormy Dragons don't get too slotted if they here about this.
Again Ratchaser pays attention to the Elf with the cyber-arm and the Orc ganger.
I can't quiet make out the gang insigna,but I bet I know them.

'KE...gods-damn...what do friggin' cops want with runners?!' Link thought to himself as the orc sat down.

'Ok, relax...KE are still a corp after all, and if they wanted you they wouldn't bother with this charade...they'd just send a squad after you' his brain then pointed out as the logical part of it caught up with his reaction.

"So...what does the eminently respectable private police force that is Knight Errant want with us?" Link asked, looking at the Johnson as he drained the teapot.

Knight Errant, eh? Spaz thought, It could be worse. Having heard Link ask the ever appropriate question, Spaz spoke up.

"Yeah, what was the job offer about?"

Eying the waitress, Spaz decided that he wasnt too hungry, waved her past.

As more of the group spoke and arrived, TK noticed that he wasn't the only ganger there. Two others were also from the Sprawl, although the markings showed them to be from out of town.

TK then watched the large Ork take his seat, and take a large swig of tea straight from the pot. The sight of another Ork impressed him.
Unfortunately, the fact he was from Knight Errant dismayed him. To TK, this Ork had sold out to the corps, and forgotten about his brothers down in the sprawl.
Since the others had started to ask questions, he decided to sit there, continuing to sit and eat the free grub placed before him.

"Knight Errant. Fuckers...fat lot of good those jack-offs did for my neighborhood. Maybe this job will let me right a few wrongs."

Azrael leans back in his chair and crosses his arms and legs, staring straight at the KE Johnson as if daring him to call him on his subtle disregard for professionalism or protocol.

"Gracias amablemente," Brown Tom reply in return to the Aztlander in his native dialect, though his heavy Irish accent still manages to worm its way in like a dreaded disease.

Paying little attention to the corn-rowed ork that arrived a few moments ago, simply assuming him to be another prospective employee, Tom took a whiff of the tea the waitress served and his nose damn near shrived into a prune. "What the fookin' 'ell is dis shite?" he mutters under his breath. "Fookin' Brits infecting the fookin' world with their fookin' tea fetishes..." and he just continues to rant quietly to himself for a few moments, the colorful metaphors being about all you can make out.

His muttering comes to an abrubt halt when he turns and sees the Dim Sum sitting in front of him. He sort of cocks his head to the side while first looking at it, then the two sticks off to the side, then back to the dumpling. He picks up one of the chopsticks and sort of prods the weird item a few times to test it, but his attention is soon grabbed when Links starts talking to the new arrival.

"Well pike me raw," the dwarf thinks to himself. "Shamus hooked me up with this barmy bloke? Pfft. But it's five t'ousand at d'very least, so I guess I can o'erlook 'im for now. Plus who knows? He might turn out to be a right trustworthy chap despite outward appearances." When he catches a glimpse of his own reflection in a mirror behind the potential Johnson, he gives himself a sheepish look.

He then sits back in his chair and idly pokes at the Dim Sum while waiting for the Johnson to pipe up.

Jones sipped his tea as he waited for the Johnson to reply to Link's query. Personally, he didn't think this Johnson was actually from Knight Errant. The main reason for hiring shadowrunners rather than using corp employees was deniability.

The waitress slipped back into the room to take your orders, then disappeared once more. She didn’t seem to notice, or mind, that the large ork had taken out some kind of electronic device and set it on the table. The beer can-sized item had a small blinking LCD on top. “Can never be too careful these days,” the ork said to no one in particular, “especially in a joint like this. Squid lo mein,” he barked at the waitress before she exited.

“You Boston socialites can call me Lieutenant Johnson,” he began, addressing the group. “I don’t want to know any of your names. Deniability, of course. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. It’s a simple job, smash and grab. The mark is a resident of a Back Bay burbclave. All additional available pertinent information will be communicated to you via the chip I’ve got in my pocket, upon acceptance of my terms, and my terms are this.”

He paused to down the other half of the teapot’s steaming contents. “Five thousand nuyen per head upon successful delivery of the mark, plus one thousand per head in advance. If you’re contemplating taking the advance and cutting out of here, let me assure you: seven thousand nuyen is plenty reason for me to hunt the lot of you down and convert your skulls into ashtrays.”

Obviously Lieutenant Johnson preferred not to mince words. “So what is it then, chummleichen?”

"Acceptable," Jones said, holding his hand out for the chip.

Brown Tom looked as if he were about to say something right when Jones decided to jump in and ruin any chance for a successful negotiation on the price. With a bit of a sigh that he manages to hide remarkably well, the dwarf just sits back in his seat and does his best not to roll his eyes at the spic. Of course his thought process is a tad bit more colorful than that, but that's neither here nor there.

Nonetheless, he simply decides to roll with the situation and try again when it comes time to pick up the rest of the payment. "Very well," he says in perfect English -- a sure sign that he is well and truly miffed as anyone who's known him for more than a few hours would easily tell -- and ends it at that.

"I got nothing to loose.." Spaz replied.

Ratchaser looks around the table, takes note that all seem to be in agreement and awaits for the others.This sounds way to easy

"Very well," Azrael says curtly, speaking with his Irish accent for the first time.

TK takes a few moments to think about it, watching the others jump at the chance for 6000:nuyen:. "Alright, I'm in."
He then paused for moment, thinking that 'Lieutenant Johnson' as he calls himself can't be that smart. 5000+1000 does not total 7000. Is he trying to ruin our image?

"alright, I'm in but who's the mark and why? Is this info. on that little chip of yours?"
Ratchaser looks around at this rag-tag group of 'runners'...
"Great Cat I hope I'm the only one that is new to this, cause if we don't have one professional amoungst us then my feelings of trepidation are gonna turn into outright fear"

Lt. Johnson flipped the chip into Jones' hand after retrieving it from his KE jacket pocket. "'Spose I may as well tell you, since it's on the chip anyway," he responded to Ratchaser. "The mark is Omiko Takeda, an up-and-comer from the biotech department of an up-and-coming Beanplex corp. That's all I'm gonna say in a place like this. Check the chip yourself for the rest."

The waitress returned with everyone's orders, serving Lt. Johnson last. Before she can place the plate of squid lo mein in front of him, he intercepts the dish and puts it right back in her hands. "Have it ready in a to-go container at the front door in one minute and there's a one-hundred percent tip in it for you," he barked at her. She disappeared once more.

The ork reached into his jacket once more and withdrew seven credsticks, placing them on the table near the center. The valuable black cylinders gleamed on the lacquered surface. "Certified cred, one thousand nuyen each. The rest is yours upon delivery, and the chip tells you how to contact me. You have one week." He stood up. "Now if you'll pardon me, it's past my bedtime. We peace officers need all the rest we can get in this damn town."

Lt. Johnson headed for the door.

Ratchaser watches 'Lt. Johnson' hand the chip over to Jones, quietly watchs the johnson leave the table and room, and turns to Jones again.
"Amigo, you got something to read that chip with?"
Just as Jones looks at Ratchaser he takes Jones' gaze to the beer-sized cylinder with LCD on table, a questioning expression on his face as they look at each other again.
"And now that it looks like we're in this together how do you chummers intend to proceed?"

"Normaly," Spaz started, "I'd have something to read that with, but my personal computer was stolen last week."

"So.. whats that?" Spaz asked, knowing this is probably the most stupid question in the world for him to ask. He looked at the cylinder on the table. "It has an LCD, dont suppose it has a chipreader to0?"

"Looks like a white noise generator," Jones says. "Since we got it, we can discuss the plan here. Anyone got a pocket secretary to read the chip with?"

Brown Tom unfastens his peacoat and reaches in, pulling out a slender plastic gadget embossed with an Aztechnology logo. "Aye, that I do, lad." He paused for a moment, having a good look at the joint before continuing. "But I dunno... I'd feel a wee bit more comfortable discussing things elsewhere. That fellow who just left felt a bit uneasy talkin' 'ere as well. I'd advise trustin' his instincts, if yae know wot I mean."

"Okay," Jones says. "Let's rent a couple hotel rooms. From there we can do our planning, and any decking we need to do beforehand."

Sliding his Cadbury™ Mk-IV P-Sec back into his jacket, the dwarven mickey stood up and dropped a healthy tip on the table even though he never touched his meal. "Sounds like a plan. I believe I saw a suitable place about a block away, I did. 'Should be able to find a nice, quiet room'r two for a good price dere."

"Course," he continues while grabbing his shillelagh and preparing to leave, "that's assuming me Chinese is up to par. It may 'ave just been a brothel or fishmonger's shop for all I know -- and now that I think 'bout it, those two are kinda related... hmm. But aye, aye, those bloomin' symbols are a right pain in the arse t'read. Worth checkin' out nonetheless, though. So when'er you gents are ready..."

"Ok...either I missed something, or that guy isn't really Knight Errant...not that I espcially care so long as I get paid, but what does a security force want with some bio-geek from a half-assed corp nobody ever heard of ? Link thinks to himself as the Johnson left.

"Ok, so...hotel it is then?, and as you should never throw away a free gift, someone take the white-noise generator...and just hope it isn't bugged." Link said to the group.

'Somehow...I think this group just might work out after all... Link thinks to himself as he stands up, draining the last of his tea from the cup and reaching into his pocket for the keys to his Rapier.

"O.K. at least no-ones giving me that your stupid stare, things may work out after all. The elf ganger... Ancients... maybe I can find out about the beanplex corp. and territory from 'Lakota' and the Stormy Dragons here in Boston. I'll have to pay her a visit, 'sides we haven't 'hooked up' in a month or so...."
"Read chinese do ya? E hablas espanol tam byeng?(OOC:spellings horrible, sorry) you impress me Tom. If I can call you Tom that is."
Looking at the white noise generator Ratchaser makes a move to grab it then pauses....
"Ah look, (In Spanish):I don't know anything about those things." pointing to the Can. "(In Spanish): You want to play with it?"...
"'cause I really don't have an interest in playing with it, and can you really put a tracker on one of those?" He asks as he stands from his seat and secures his jacket from his seat.
As he stands he waits for the rest to react.
"I wonder if we should all leave together or seperatly the way we came?"

"So, whose gonna pay da bill fur da room? And any of you guys got any ideas fur a decent place to do dis?" TK asked the others, knowing that one grand was a healthy amount for an up front fee, and he didn't want to spend it needlessly.
He then looked at Ratchaser, and asks [in Spanish: "Where ya from chummer? Deep southern basin?"]

"If its electronic, I can hack it up and put it back together. If you give me a bit I can get my tools and check it out." Spaz said in responce to the question.


"Someday I should take up other languages... Really I should.. "

"Of course you can, lad... of course you can," the dwarf replies to the shaman, reaching up to pat him on the back. But before he has the opportunity to say anything else, TK pipes up.

Brown Tom just sort of stares at TK for a moment, then turns back to Ratchaser. "Is me accent really that bad, mate?" With a sigh, he turns yet again to address the group proper.

"I'll take care of the rooms if someone'll give me a lift to d'place. I believe it's just down the road, t'is."

{In spanish: I think he was talking about me} Ratchaser says to Tom looking at Spaz.
"I apologize (OOC:Seems I've been doing alot of that today. )chummer, I will try to be more aware of the language I use when in proper company. Lets organize a way to the Hotel and then we'll figure out what to do with this thing, and we'll let you handle it." Ratchaser looks at everyone to see if they all agree.

He then turns to Tk {In Spanish: I'm from the isle of Puerto Rico. It's been a long time since I've been home. Don't miss it to much, been having lots of fun. and you?}

The waitress returns with your orders and vanishes once more, after serving you and placing a small white envelope on the center of the table. The envelope is about the size of a business card, and sealed with red wax stamped with a complex Chinese ideogram.

Watching the waitress leave, Brown Tom reaches up and slides the envelope off the table. "I knew there was somet'ing fishy about this place," he says as he takes a good look at the stamp before opening it, careful to not disrupt the seal.

Street Rumors followed by a Japanese (defaulting as he did earlier) check to identify the symbol: 5 1 2 5 7 3 and 3 1 7 4.

Jones goes on full alert. "Who's the mage," he whispers. "Scan the room astrally, quick." So saying, he gets up and walks unhurriedly to the restroom, nonchalantly scanning the room as he does so. Once in the restroom, he hides in one of the stalls for a minute, then heads straight back out. As he walks back to the table, he tells the waitress that the group is ready to leave and would like their food boxed up to go.

The waitress bows slightly in acknowledgment of Jones' request and slips into the kitchen, presumably to procure some to-go boxes.

"It was just some Hindi chica and a right sexy one at dat she was," Tom replies haphazardly, peeling his eyes from the envelope to have a quick look around before returning to it while Jones goes about his business. "She was just protectin' her... our... boss and left wit'im. Not'ing to worry about, mate. I'd have warned ye if it were serious. But aye, d'sooner we get outta this place, the better. So if yer all done doing what'er it is yer doin', can we get the fook outta 'ere?" He looks up again and flashes a surprisingly charming smile.

As for the envelope, the dwarf tucks it safely inside his peacoat after deciding that it would be better to read it in detail once we were at the hotel.

EDIT: Modified to adjust for an OOC comment from Jacob. Guess the cat's out of the bag though, huh? :D

Ratchaser looks at Azrael as he prepares to leave. Then pauses to look at TK. (OOC: If TK offers to finish up their conversation, he politely listens then...)

"Agreed, lets move out. You say the hotels a couple blocks from hee? Good. Walk, ride, fly lets just get their and straighten things out their. If you need a ride, I've got a Scoot in the alley. Do we leave as a whole or individually like we came in?"Ratchaser stops face tewisting up a bit. Stupid, of course we leave as we came, individually.
"I've got the food bill." Looking at Tom for acknowledgement of a ride he walks out the door, and walks to the front of the establishment and pays the bill. Then he walks out to the alley and awaits his passenger. While waiting Ratchaser checks the Astral around the establishment. Pulls to go box full of left overs he carried out with him and eyes the alley for a stray cat. Upon seeing one he summons it to him and gives it the leftovers, gently petting it as it devours the meal.

"Its only a few blocks, Ill walk." Spaz said in responce to Ratchasers question.

Spaz hopped out of the oversized chair and walked out after Ratchaser payed the bill. Walking down the street he kept a look out for Ratchaser and the rest of the crew, seeing which building they enter and following them.

"I'll ride," Azrael says to Ratchaser.

"That's right nice of y..." Brown Tom begins until he's interupted by first Spaz and then Azrael. Once again, the dwarflooks as if he's about to say something, but he just gives an exasperated sigh and waves his hand in disgust in Azrael and Spaz's general direction instead. "Bah."

He turns to button up his peacoat and adjust his bowler. "Fookin' eeijits," he barks to his inner monologue as his shillalelagh clicks while he marches out after the kind Ratchaser and the two bloomin' ridestealers have left.

Me, I'm a local sprawler. Born an raised in da sprawl. Not much ov a life, but it got me 'ere. TK responded to Ratchaser's question, his Spanish not being the greatest, but finding it eaiser when talking to others like him [[OOC: Spanish with Lingo of Cityspeak - 1[3] ]]

TK then pushed the chair back, strapping on his skater helmet, so he wouldn't forget it. Tapping his feet, the blades lowered from his feet, which allowed him to slide along the floot to follow the others out. Tell me where it iz an I'll be there. Just gotta check a haunt first. He told the others, as his knowledge of the darker parts of Boston allowed him to use the back alleys and his blades to race to the destination.