In the Green Grocer mark-up thread, discussion turned to all sorts of wonderful runs which the food production industry could give rise to.

This is a topic with so much potential for wonderful options, that I decided to call upon the GMs of Dumpshock to throw together a few collaboratively designed runs, and to kick it off, I'll try my hand at one.

Background:

This run is a data steal, but not your daddy's data steal, no sir. It's all about genes and technology.

The parties:

Big Billy Hendrickson is an independent holdout, standing against the encroachment of Big Ag with a combination of sass and savvy. He wears his coveralls and a straw stetson like his grampaw did in '04, but he's a smart sumbitch even though he drawls like a West Texas redneck - which is precisely what he is.

Western Organics is a joint venture between two subdivisions of Aztechnology, and is dedicated to increasing stakeholder value in cooperation with civil authorities and public interest watchdogs well funded by forward-looking, public-spirited corporations like Aztechnology. They wait for farms to go broke because of drought, mismanagement, or unfavourable market conditions, or simply get sold to pay crippling estate taxes, which companies like Aztechnology will certainly pay, but only when they turn mortal and die.

The problem:

Big Billy Hendrickson grew him a bull, a bull the likes of which Zeus turned into when he wanted to get some serious seduction done. Six foot at the shoulder, if it's an inch, broader than Auntie May's ass, muscled like Bubba, but with an appetite like Lean Carson, who just lives off chaw and rye. A bull like this means good times, a new truck and a prom dress for Li'l Candy which ain't handed down.

The funny thing is that not long after that bull (named Lester, after Bubba's uncle who opened on the high school defensive line) started growing his horns out, a bunch of steers looking mighty close to Lester started showing up on poor ol' Skeeter's farm, which now belongs to Western Organics. Real close, down to the white star on the muzzle.

The proposition:

"Boys, I know they done stole Lester's genetics. They musta. No way this is coincidence. Lester's from mah own herd, bred his whole line mahself. Ol' Skeeter never had nuthin' on his land but them crazy Brahmin cattle, and I'd swear at the altar they never trucked in no herd. Somehow they copied Lester, an' they're turnin' out steers like funnelcake."

"I don't want them steers. I want samples so I can get a lab to check 'em. And I want some kinda records, proof what they did an' how. Mah cousin's a real good lawyer, an' ah figger on gettin' them punitive damages. Yes, sir, ol' Skeeter's land'll be mine afore we're through here."

The facts:

The steers are clones, of course. Lots and lots of clones, and the only way one turns out clones like that is if one has the source material. Western Organics pulled a run of their own, took a quiet little flesh sample off Lester, and started their biotech engines. Their only problem was being dog-ass dumb enough to do it right next to where they found Lester. That's because they thought they'd roll right over Big Billy.

There's an installation built inside Skeeter's old barn, where the stalls were converted to stacked clone tanks, and there's a central system which retains a base reservoir of pluripotent cells. In addition, flesh samples from the steers will confirm Lester's genetics.

The data showing the plans of the corp are elsewhere, on the commlink based in ol' Skeeter's house, which is now under expansion to be the farm manager's hacienda, and occasional resort and dude ranch for corp execs. This means that is a higher security building, although the ongoing construction offers entries.

Records of data still available make it pretty clear that the farm manager was instructed to get Lester's genetics by hook or by crook, with the signature of a pretty senior corp boss on it.

Some complications:

Billy can't easily pay them wads of cash, but he can pay them in kind: a few thousand pounds of real meat, in a refrigerated truck, which they can resell for their own purposes in the location of their choice. How they achieve this is up to them. Also, he can offer them some of his own distilled fuel alcohol, for personal use, resale, or ... personal use. He can also offer a discreet place in a gully to put an old trailer if they need a place to lie low.

Awakened critters. Even if it's only one in ten thousand, ten thousand is nothing when they also have chicken barns of two hundred thousand birds apiece. Also, they haven't realised what Big Billy has dealt with for years, in terms of managing the rattlers. Venomous snakes? Maybe some of them are awakened too.

Transport. This, folks, is the sticks. Way out in the middle of nowhere, so freaking remote that one can still clearly see the stars.

Medicine. If you're in a hurry, there's the horse doctor. If you're in a bit less of a hurry, maybe a Navajo medicine man, and if you have lots of time, what the hell's the problem?

Aftermath ideas:

Maybe Western Organics doesn't want to play nice, and it comes down to a test of wills and firepower. Maybe Billy will have another job for them, clearing out a den of rattlers.

Maybe Western Organics takes li'l Candy for an unscheduled trip, and Billy wants her back.

Maybe one of Billy's neighbours wants someone to investigate the unearthly lights and howls on a remote corner of his property, or there's a garbled message coming through about blood-worshippin' priests?

This is just my first idea. Anyone want to put some bones on it? Maybe stat out some of the players, the Matrix stats of the equipment on the Western Organics farm?

I miss my 30-30...
Awesome Post, by the way.

I like the idea. the big deal is the whole fish out of water for runners use to urban jungles. My players do a lot of camping but for a lot of people getting out in farm land- not wilderness- but rurla lands can be a real issue.

Thank you, sir.

Here's another outline for more folks to flesh out, should they choose.

Background:

Real simple. Wetwork.

The parties:

The Homeowner's Association of Verdant Heights Gated Community

The association represents the homeowners of a proud gated community, who thought that they were safe behind their fences. What nobody bothered to tell them is that even unawakened cougar can jump to an astonishing height, and walling them out is like trying to wall out helicopters. An interesting idea, but probably futile. Definitely futile if there are trees nearby. Which there are.

All Sentients Rights Organisation

"Fish are sentient too, you know. You didn't think of that before you sank your fangs into that sandwich did you, cannibal? You monster, you make us sick. What if we cut off your leg and fried it up, would you want a piece of that, mister Genocide? Yeah, you have a gun, that's cute. So do we."

Bugler

Bugler is a stag shaman teetering on the brink of toxicity. The fact that he is eighteen, couldn't get laid in a women's prison if he had a 50lb sack of deepweed and lives in his parents' basement has no bearing on this, really.

Marie

"Oooh, so you're a shadowrunner. I don't think I've ever met one before. Look, I know you're staking out the cat, but it's not even dark yet, and my parents won't be back for hours. You look awful hunched up under that jacket, why don't I give you a backrub ... oh my. It's not a hunch, all muscle, mmmmmm ...."

The problem:

Hunting? In the sixth world? That's for underclass filth, redneck throwbacks and, oh please spare us, ignorant tribesmen from the back of beyond. We are enlightened suburbanites of the greater Everett area, and we have, in harmony with the ancient wisdom of our more sensitive neighbours, banned such atavistic pursuits in the interests of a more harmonious relationship with the environment, which we all cherish.

Honey darling, have you seen Moopsie? She hasn't come home for din-dins. Junior is frightfully late too, maybe he took her out for a walk. I'll send a message to his link to remind him of his schedule ...

The proposition:

"Oh my god, it's a monster! For the love of all that's holy, kill it! Kill it!"

"No, dear, we can't do that. It has a right to stay here too."

"He was your son too! And now he's gone forever!"

"We'll clone him, dear, and I know perfectly well he's James's son, your pretence is getting tiresome."

The facts:

Aaaah, suburbia. Such a healthy environment. So full of positive influences. For instance, shooting is banned. Including crossbows. And bows. And slingshots. And air rifles. And blowguns. The critters realise that too, and also realise that since they've been left to breed unchecked for so long, that sources of cute, fluffy snacks are running low. So what to do when a cougar moves into the neighbourhood? Get a team of people with relaxed views on legality to sort it all out.

Bang, bang, done, right? An easy payoff, and ... oops, the runners are uncouth benighted monsters dredged up from a sewer. All except a good Face, who is going to have to deal with personalities to even negotiate this contract. A lot of personalities, all of whom are used to getting their way, and few of whom agree on much of anything. Oh, so very many, so very special personalities.

Some complications:

Speaking of personalities, some of them have their own contacts. Like All Sentients Rights Organisation. Who don't want cougars shot. Or otherwise killed. Or even molested, and will actually call their activists to trip up the runners, betray their presence, call the authorities, and even flat-out attack them.

Knight-Errant. What, you want to fire a gun? You want to even bring it into the neighbourhood? Are you out of your mind, chummer? Don't answer that. Don't even breathe until I give you permission, if you wanna live.

Meow? Cougars show up where they want, when they want, how they want. If it's Awakened, that goes double. If it's a shapeshifter, that's even worse.

Bugler is just a bomb waiting to go off. Tick, tick, tick, tick .....

Aftermath ideas:

The payoff should be stellar. Possibly even six figures, because there is going to be a shitstorm coming down from someone, if not several someones.

Maybe James Chester Marigold VI wants the hide for a trophy. Maybe Marie wants to have wild, kinky shadowrunner sex on it. Maybe the stomach contents include childlike fingers.

Background:

Hound Dog and Cooter are two old men. Old patriarchs, running their large, extended families on two hills in what is still called Wes' Virginny.

Too bad Hound Dog Robinson and Cooter MacNulty's great-grandaddies had that dispute over the corn squeezin's from that still up the creek. Otherwise they might've been the best of friends. Course, if I'd had more teeth, I might've had more wimmin. Hah!

The parties:

The Robinsons live on the ruined remains of a hill which was subject to mountaintop mining. It was their land before the mountain lost its top, and they got it back when the mining was done. The mining company even brought in new topsoil and planted sod because the government made them do it. Now the hill looks like a burst pimple on the cratered face of one of the younger Robinsons. Still, they do all right. When the season is good and the shearing is good, there's wool to be sold. And when it isn't, there's meat and hide to be sold. And there's always corn licker.

The MacNultys still have a whole hill. That makes them quality folk, at least in their eyes. They look down, literally, on the other hills. So do their hogs, because the MacNulty clan has always kept hogs. They keep other animals too, but hogs are what they're famous for.

The problem:

Back before all this magic crap drove the rev'nooers back to tendin' their own knittin', the corn squeezin's were good money. Real good money. They all supplied everyone else's demand. Old man MacNulty, way back when, before the double nickel, or so folks tell, shared a still up the creek with Old man Robinson. Then they fell to bickerin'. Mind, it depends on who you ask. Some folks say it was a girl came between 'em. Jess Hess. Trouble Hess, was her name, and the old pictures show her as purty as an apple tree all bloomin'. Li'l Carla-Sue Robinson don't look too different, which is part of the trouble, because she had been courtin' old man MacNulty until ... but there I go, chatterin' on ...

Really, what isn't the problem here?

Carla-Sue is so hot that even her own cousins want to bed her. And she giggles when the boys get mad.

The MacNulty's pig dogs get in among the Robinson's sheep, and cause no end of trouble, and then when the Robinsons shoot the dogs (which all shepherds with a clear eye and a loaded gun would do) they won't pay compensation.

The creek changed its course five times in the last seven years, which gave rise to property and water disputes.

The Robinson's sheep ringbark the MacNulty's fruit trees when they get loose, which they do periodically, and their goats will even climb the trees to get at succulent buds. The MacNultys shoot the ruminants, which gives rise to more friction.

Matt Robinson accidentally hit John-Joe macNulty's runabout with a tractor on purpose. Then John-Joe beat the tar out of Matt, who then wasn't the one who shot John-Joe that night when he shot him.

And that there still is still a sore point.

The proposition:

"Carla-Sue swore she'd elope with me, see? But her daddy an' all her cousins're watching her like hawks. She says they even whipped her, whipped her real good. She showed me them welts, all over where she sits down. Makes me so mad! But I c'n make it all right if she'd come with me. So here's what you get, for gettin' her out o' that house of sin an' degr'dation: Ah know where old man Robinson hides the money he makes off'n our still. You get her, I'll get you that, an' believe me, it's plenty. He has to carry it in feed sacks."

The facts:

Everyone's right, everyone's wrong. If the runners don't pick sides, they might end up dead. And if they do, they might end up deader.

The money isn't actually cash. It's real enough, but it's combed, spun angora rabbit fur. (The stuff pays by the ounce. Really.)

Carla-Sue is being watched, because she's a horny adolescent girl with a diminished sense of responsibility and an overinflated sense of importance. She's also being abused up to a point, but the fact is that she's fomenting the abuse because she has a masochistic streak, and kind of likes being spanked. She will panic if she's grabbed, and actually being extracted will make her scream because then she will realise that things are getting a little out of hand.

Some complications:

Start with dozens of male relatives armed with appalachian assault rifles (lever action repeaters chambered in rounds quite capable of taking down a 500lb black bear). They're all crack shots, they're all xenophobic hillbillies, and anyone from more than a hundred miles away is a foreigner.

They are all good drivers in the rough and rugged terrain, and equipped to travel fast in terrible conditions. City slickers who don't know those mountains are in for a very, very bad time.

Carla-Sue will plead with the runners to take her to the city. Then plead for them to look after her. She will put out like a drunken cheerleader in a frat house movie, and then expect that this means all her bedmates owe her the world. Demanding, that's her middle name.

Aftermath ideas:

Assuming the runners survive, members of either family might crop up at any time, usually when they'd be least appreciated. Nowhere is safe.

On the other hand, they might have devoted customers in ol' Wes' Virginny, if they ever have the guts to show their faces again.

I want a 30-30 now. Or a .357 Magnum Lever-Action Carbine with .357 Magnum Peacemaker to go with it.

I can recommend the combination. Marlin's 1894c has a good, smooth action (as long as you clean and lubricate it, of course). I prefer modern double action revolvers, but a carbine/revolver combination is a classic and very rugged. However, to get the best out of it I would add a reloading kit, possibly an aperture sight on the carbine, and a couple of speedloaders for the revolver. A buttstock shellholder for the carbine just makes a good thing better. The carbine really lets you get the best out of that round, and has potential to reach near 30-30 energy levels.

Of course, you can also get carbines chambered in .45 colt and .44 magnum. That's a good ol' time.

Background:

Sure, the Lakota Sioux run what used to be North Dakota, but that doesn't mean a few palefaces aren't left, allowed to stay on their farms for one reason or another. It's not as if many didn't leave, and that land then get taken over. Many of those who stayed actually do have some Lakota blood, after all.

The fact is that they largely coexist fairly well, partly because nobody has much to gain by starting trouble. Add a plague of locusts, and things get tight. Add a plague of locust shamans, and trouble gets big.

The parties:

The Swarm. It eats everything. It even eats itself. Ultimately it will eat its own shamans. But not before it has eaten everything else in its path.

George Brzezinski. He was a farmer. He lived by himself when his wife left with the kids. Then he started to hear the voices, and that one female voice offered him so much power ... and the Swarm delivered.

Dancing Antelope is a tribal elder of the Sioux, and he needs his people protected. He has a budget - a real, no-fooling budget with nice comforting numbers of zeroes in the number.

Max Schwarzmark is a representative of the few paleface farmers left. They want to live - to make it out alive - and to rebuild after the swarm passes. They don't have much, but what they do have is on the table in a desperate bid for survival.

The problem:

The locusts are swarming. Including the locust spirits. If you don't see the problem, whatever drugs you're taking are either too much or not enough.

The proposition:

"I'll speak plainly. We need help. This is ... a plague of madness. Please, our children, our families, they turn into monsters, or die, or both. Our livelihoods are stripped away. Help us. Whatever you want, whatever price you ask, if we can pay it, we will if it means we survive."

The facts:

There are few forces out here except nature. The plains are wide, beautiful but bleak. A locust swarm is like a buzzing dust cloud on the horizon. A dust cloud of which each speck is a hopping, or flying mouth with bottomless hunger attached. And behind that bottomless hunger is a spirit which is ready to swarm, swarm through into the fertile fields of unmediated, material reality. At least in Chicago's containment zone someone might have heard your screams. Here only the wind will, and the other locusts.

Some complications:

Broken down transport. Psychological problems in the isolation. Severe, punishing, unrelenting weather extremes. Hunger. Thirst. Tornadoes. Agoraphobia. Cyberpsychosis.

Aftermath ideas:

Survivor's guilt, for those who made it out. Memories of destroyed homesteads in the middle of nowhere, which no amount of booze will erase. A life forever changed.

But hey, some survivors might be grateful. If they can stop the nightmares.

Damn, man. These Redneck Runs are good.

Well, except for the last one. That's downright terrifying. You don't need runners for that, you need MET2000 or Assets, Inc, or The Great Dragon Hestaby.


On the other hand, regular old Runners might make off well enough managing the evacuation, especially if some stubborn fools who are very dear to the hearts of someone who's wielding the money are out there sitting atop a pile of shotguns and swearing that they're not gonna take their land, not no-one and not no-thing and need to be forcibly evacuated.

So, no shootin', no killin'... I says we stunbolt those damn coogers and dump'em covertly into those eejits' basements! Once they come to, bring popcorn, 'cause it's gonna be funnier than a two-legged dog in a top hat.

New Complication:
"Neutral" party - Mantid spirit (great form for prime runners) feeding on locust spirits by the dozen the longer the runners take to plan.....

Popcorn, hell!

Plant trid cameras in the eedjits' houses. That shit can sell for good nuyen on the 'trix!

I've created a monster.

Aren't you proud?

Just because it's the country don't mean the problem's ain't real. Real big.

Still, glad you like them. Want to try wrapping some stats around some of the parties, or defining a few likely mooks and bystanders?

How about a few regional contacts? Hoss, who runs the Piggly-Wiggly, and knows everybody. Doc Cartwright, who turned Dwarf but is still the best durn horse doctor in the territory.

I like this one. Very nice complication. And she might even be a nice girl.

"Dwarves don't goblinize." "Tell that to Doc Cartwright!"

"Mebbe so, but danged if Doc Cartwright didn't shrink some."

Background:

Where do you think soykaf comes from? That's right, the almighty soyboean.
How do you think it grows? Fertiliser, chummer, and lots of it.
How do you protect it from pests? Pesticides, omae.
What happens if you keep doing that year after year after year? Eventually you end up with soil toxicity. Salinity. Dropped fertility. Reduced soil biodiversity.

The business of growing soy in the UCAS is huge. Huge, huge, huge. CAS also gets a lot of it, and here and there elsewhere in the world.

The parties:

Ella Wagner is the manager of a farm which, through a tangle of corporate ownerships, is basically owned by Renraku. About 90% of the farm is devoted to soy, with the remainder either fallow, impractical for arable agriculture, planted with something else, devoted to buildings and machinery or used for some kind of experimentation. She is essentially alone, if you ignore the fact that she's a rigger, running the farm machinery (and security) from a couch.

Harvard Eyrie is an Eagle shaman who finds much time to worry about what he sees, and he sees most of everything.

Kathy Hollister is a Spider shaman who sees most of what Harvard sees, as well as most of what he doesn't. She loves her some Watcher spirits.

Gary Carver is another shaman - of Pollution. That's right, he's toxic. So are Bernadette, Shayleen, and Brad.

The problem:

There ain't no problem. See, Gary, Bernadette, Shayleen and Brad are thrilled with the farm. Ella reckons they're good folks who are helping her keep the envirofreaks away. Life's grand! Of course, she has a little problem with soil toxicity, but there's a plan to replace some topsoil with sewage sludge. That'll fix it.

Harvard, now, he's a troublemaker. He has a problem. The problem is that - well, he can't help but look down on Kathy, but for once they're in agreement. Something's wrong there. Something bad.

The proposition:

"This is a scouting run. We need discreet people to go onto that farm. It is defended - we're not quite sure by what, but it's nasty. We need the information to guide us to proceed, but of course the farm has security as well."

"I have made three fetishes, and they are all three yours if you can bring me the truth about that farm. Use them, sell them, that is up to you."

The facts:

Ella is basically in the process of being brainwashed by the toxics, but so subtly that she hasn't noticed it. She will think that she's defending the farm against the runners with all the resources at her disposal in the service of the corporation, but the fact is that she will bring terrible farm-drone destruction (including remote controlled pest management rifles) to bear against the runners in the service of the toxics, and she will do so until she's unconscious or dead.

The toxics are having a wild time turning the farm to their own purposes, which include sending out contaminated foodstocks. They don't want the party to end, and they don't mind who they kill on the way.

The uncorrupted shamans are dead right to be worried, of course, and if they knew that they were up against toxics they would pull no punches, but the farm security (including careful work by the toxics destroying snooping spirits) has defeated their attempts and they suspect they're out of their depth. They just don't realise it's toxic spirits rather than corporate shenanigans at work.

Some complications:

Ella will, in the last extremity, call in a corporate strike team. It's not an option she will lightly pick, but it's an option on the table.

The community likes to take care of its own, and will resent obvious outsiders.

Careless tramping around will result in dealing with other farmers' animals.

There can be twisted plantforms in the fields. These are always fun.

Aftermath ideas:

Toxins in the food supply.

Angry, frustrated toxics.

Angry, frustrated, Renraku-sponsored vengeance.

A nice bunch of flavour run ideas, Koekepan. Makes me want to send my runners out into the boonies for a nice change of scene. Think they are good enough run seeds as is, and most GMs should be able to stat them out to best suit their players. Kudos.

Wait until they find out they're being paid in meat, and that it was the Greater Armadillo that was roadkill that morning.

...

No, I have no idea what can turn a Greater Armadillo into roadkill either.

Ghostwalker in his staff car?

No, Greater Armadillos derail trains...

Whatever it is, some munchkin rigger somewhere drives it in a Monty Haul campaign, while outmaneuvring yellowjackets.

Canray, think of the size a staff car would have to be for a great dragon to fit in a seat.

Thank you. I hope people find them useful. Still, I think we could do better if we put our heads together. Even set them up as NERPS, fleshed out and ready to roll at conventions.

He's a Great Dragon, and Dunkie's brother.

His staff car is a Lincoln Sprawlcar Limo in all likelihood. Or a PCC-made vehicle.

...

OK, maybe an Ares Citymaster.

It doesn't mean they survive the encounter - mutual kill is often seen in a car-vs-boar situation (namely, dead boar and trashed car).

Fair 'nuff.

I know a major problem with modern vehicles in Northern Ontario is not enough killing power. A wounded moose is a pissed off moose, and your wounded car designed to break now won't start.

It's Ghostwalker. His staff car is probably a Zugsmaschine tricked out by Ghostie's personal rigger, armored all to hell for maximum first-hit survivability, and equipped with a vehicle sensor grid and anti-missile defense lasers.

Theory being that if he gets hit in human form, he survives it thanks to the truck, leaps out the back, and now suddenly whomever was throwing missiles at him has to deal with the problem of a pissed-off Great Dragon. MRSI software may well have been invented for precisely this scenario.





I think that's why you're supposed to carry something like a big fucking revolver in your car, so you can finish the ornery bastards off.

In many case, the car won't be that trashed : mooses are rather tall-legged and the hood won't hit something too heavy. Unfortunately it also means the moose's body has an unfortunate knack for ending into the windshield - and into the driver's face...

Not quite as fleshed out of an idea as the others, but I remember reading a book with an absurd premise. Make a kodiak grizzly fight a great white shark. It was stupid, but the Shadowrun equivalent would be a juggernaut vs a megalodon. That kind of thinking seems right up this thread alley. Just remember, the most dangerous thing a redneck can say isn't "Trust me." It's "Hey ya'll! Watch this!" If that is followed by "Hold mah beer;" run. Run far away. TS;IWT.

Too True...

Canada.

We're not allowed big ass revolvers, and trying to transport longarms requires a lot of rules and regulations that would prevent being able to get at the hunting rifle fast enough.

Don't you wish you lived in Texas Instead?

Considering the fact that my family would be in hock for ten generations if not for Universal Health Care... No.

Well then, you'll need something else that can put that mother down. A giant spike and a hammer to smash into his spine while he's in your windshield would work, but would be very impractical. So... Hmmmmmm. Dunno what to tell you. Mount a big heavy bar to the front of your car?

BRILLIANT!
That, we CAN do up here!
We'll kill that bugger with Alchohol Poisoning!

Yes we Canada!

Ah well... I can understand that...

Considering what's going on in the US right now, I'd probably be one of the naked people eating people's faces in the streets if I was in Texas.

There's a Redneck Run for you... Ghoul Huntin'! "It dun be like dem Zombie movies, only easier 'cause you don' gotta hit 'em in th' head. Anywheres works just fine."

I love these. These are some great run ideas. Maybe I'll have my group do a few runs rural planetside before they head up elevator...Heck, i have so many great run ideas i just wish i could play more.

I wish I could play at all I'm a D3 gaming orphan

Me too. Bros!

Would having them trap it be even more difficult? Definitely some different problems. Still have animal rights people. Complaints about trapping the local pets...

Ram Plate FTW!

just call it a "snow plow" and your good to go.

That doesn't fly so well in the desert.

Sand Plow?

"I'm Mister Plow that name again is Mister Plow".

Well, looks like the local yokel cops got lucky and got them good ol' boys. You gotta break 'em out of jail otherwise no one in the county is getting their 'shine.

You get paid in 'shine, BTW.

EDIT: You get some actual cash if you also break their car out of "car jail".